A Study in Time
by Silvre Musgrave
Summary: The 19th and 21st century meet when a woman flees to the past, unwillingly bringing her pursuer with her. Her only hope is history's most ingenious detective -- Sherlock Holmes.
1. A Most Singular Client

_A/N The following story is my first Sherlock Holmes fan-fiction, so it's kind of an experiment. It should also be noted that much of this story is based on the Granada rendition of The Adventures, Return, Memoirs and Casebook of Sherlock Holmes. For instance, in one episode (I can't remember which at the moment), a remark was made about Mycroft Holmes' handwriting...Sherlock gave a note written by Mycroft to Watson, saying something about how a doctor's profession was infamous for bad handwriting._

_So please enjoy!_

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**Chapter One: A Most Singular Client**

It was a quarter to seven on a chilly March morning when Sherlock Holmes was woken by the landlady.

"Mr. Holmes!"

The detective's only response was to pull the blankets over his head.

"Mr. _Holmes!"_ Mrs. Hudson repeated irritably, flinging open the window. The sunlight burst in, illuminating the untidy room.

A mumbling came from underneath the blankets, all of which was indiscernible to her except "go away."

"Mr. Holmes," she said as loudly as she could without fear of waking Dr. Watson on the floor above, "A note has come from your brother! I believe it's urgent—"

At the mention of "brother", the sheets flew forward, revealing the tousled, dark-haired head of Sherlock Holmes. His eyes glistened with curiosity as he snatched the telegram from Mrs. Hudson's fingers and opened it. He motioned to the door in a flitting gesture. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson…" he said distantly, his voice still slightly thick with sleep.

She huffed quietly and left.

He quickly scanned the note, and without another moment's hesitation, leapt out of bed.

"Whatever can this be about? He said nothing in his note!" Holmes exclaimed, curiosity and irritation clear in his voice. He talked on as he considered the reasons his brother might have contacted him.

Meanwhile, Dr. John Watson sat, half-listening, next to him. He'd been up late the previous night after seeing a client with a sprained ankle, and was a bit peeved that Holmes had found it necessary to wake him at this ungodly hour.

Not that he _really_ minded, but why did these things always have to happen so early?

He read the scrawled note through bleary, yawn-tightened eyes, which he could actually make out this time around. He'd seen notes of Mycroft's before, and they were barely legible.

_Sherlock,_

_A most singular client has come to see me and has inquired after you. It is unsafe for her to leave without assistance. Come at once. You may bring Watson._

_Mycroft_

"It certainly is vague," Watson commented, handing it back to Holmes.

Holmes took it, but did not reply; Watson could see from the faraway look in the detective's eyes that he was working out the possibilities, and settled back in the hansom.

Holmes' mind whirled, full of questions. _Why go to Mycroft? Why not go straight to Baker Street, if it was me she wished to contact? How would she know of Mycroft in the first place? To know where and who he is is indeed curious…_

…_could Mycroft be in danger because of her arrival?_

He dismissed this last thought as quickly as it had come. Mycroft's mental powers far surpassed his own, and if he had sensed any danger at this client's coming, he would have not written the note so leisurely. Though his written words were indeed scribbles, Sherlock knew his brother's writing. Mycroft hadn't been rushed.

With this thought now processed and pushed from his mind, his brain set again upon the note. _The woman is being followed or at the very least watched. She is certainly in some terrible sort of danger, or Mycroft would have sent her to me in a cab. And he says she is "most singular." I wonder what makes her so…._

They arrived in Pall Mall within minutes. After paying the cabby, they headed straight into the Diogenes Club. After quietly stating their business, they were led by a be-slippered butler up the great flights of stairs and down silent hallways until they reached the double-doored room that Watson associated with the first meeting of Mycroft Holmes.

The butler knocked softly on the door, which opened immediately to reveal the portly, stout form of Sherlock's elder brother.

"Ah, Sherlock. Watson." He said in his heavy, deliberate sort of voice. He had a tortoise-shell box in his left hand, which the doctor knew to contain snuff.

"Mycroft." Sherlock smiled briefly.

"Her name is Christine Andrews," Mycroft said, getting straight into the matter at hand. "This way." He led Sherlock and Watson through the room with the bow-window, until they approached an offset, smaller sitting room. He nodded through the door.

Sherlock nor Watson spoke, but peered through.

The room was dark. The only light came from the fireplace, which was in need of another log; the curtains had been drawn tightly. Three chairs surrounded the fireplace, along with a small round table upon which a still-steaming cup of tea rested.

Next to this, sitting on a sofa facing the fire, was their client.

She was a small, slender thing who could not yet be thirty. Her golden-chestnut hair was not pulled up, but back, and hung halfway down her back, though some hung over her forehead in wavy locks. Her eyes were a light colour, perhaps blue or green; it was difficult to tell in the flame-light. She was very attractive, Watson noticed, and very…bold, he decided was the best word.

And Holmes would agree. She sat straight, with her head up and both feet planted firmly on the floor; her breathing was quite regular. Her composure was only betrayed by the fact that she was incessantly turning and twining her fingers around an old locket around her neck.

These observations were commonplace and most usual…quite the opposite of her clothing, which puzzled the detective.

She wore trousers and a button-up shirt, like a man. But the clothes were obviously cut _for_ a woman. The trousers were the kind Holmes had seen some Americans wear, especially miners and working-class men, made of denim and dyed an indigo blue. The sleeves of the white button-up shirt ended a little past the elbow, and he began to make further deductions.

_Her arms are well-muscled, yet she is not of a working class for her hands are not rough and her attire is, for the most part, very clean. So she exercises to keep fit. She may very well work in an office of some sort; the elbows of her shirt are worn down and the right one has a smudge of graphite or ink on it. She walked some way to get here, and came from the country; the hems of her trousers are worn and covered in mud…_

…_But it has not rained for a week. And what unusual shoes…I cannot tell what material they are made of. A brown flexible kind of material…and the sole… rubber perhaps? There is a symbol on the side that looks somewhat like a check-mark. There is her jacket, on the sofa arm beside her. Or perhaps it is her brother's, or father's, for it is much too large for her frame._ He stared at this jacket, for he'd seen nothing of the sort. It was of brown leather or sheepskin, with thick fur around the collar. It was old, very worn, and had a patch of Britain's flag on the shoulder. Where there should be buttons, there were two lines of metallic teeth-like things.

His eyes ran along this jacket, along the sleeve, which was draped over the sofa in such a way that one arm nearly touched the floor. Next to this, leaning against the sofa was a large, old knapsack.

Holmes stepped inside the doorway and turned on the gas lamp on a table next to him.

The woman stood bolt upright as the room was brightly illuminated, then reached for her knapsack, but halted midway through the motion. Her eyes, which they saw now to be a striking grey-blue, widened. Her mouth dropped open in surprise, and she slowly stood straight. She stood there in silence, with a strange look of – awe? – on her face.

"Mr. Holmes?" she finally asked in a clear, steady voice. Her eyes went to Watson, and seemed to widen even further. "Dr. Watson?"

"Miss Andrews." Holmes removed his top hat and placed it on the table; Dr. Watson did the same.

Her hand went involuntarily to her mouth, as if in disbelief, and she walked towards them, extending her hand. "Mr. Holmes, sir, it's such an honor. Dr. Watson, an honor."

She was all confidence; her demeanor, her stride, her handshake were all firm and certain. And yet Holmes could not deny that he felt an undercurrent of uneasiness, of fear.

After she had shaken their hands, Christine sat on the sofa again. Sherlock, Watson and Mycroft did the same. The latter took the seat closest to the warmth of the fire and listened to all, though one would have thought he was sleeping.

"How may I help you, Miss Andrews?" Sherlock Holmes asked in his usual, brisk manner.

With the introductions over and the real problem at hand, she suddenly looked tired. "You're the only one who _can_ help me, Mr. Holmes." She paused for a moment to rub her eyes. "I need to tell you a few things first, before I tell you my story." She heard the slight rustling of papers, and looked up to see Dr. Watson pulling out a small notebook and pencil.

"If I may," he said questioningly.

"Oh, of course. Please." Christine nodded. "Alright…first, you're probably wondering why I didn't go to the police. The fact is, Mr. Holmes, and you know better than most, that strange things happen. There are things so bizarre, so odd, so…far-fetched that the police will either dismiss them as a hoax or nonsense, or stick with what seems to be the most obvious explanation. But you _don't._ You dig as deep as you can until you uncover the true solution…no matter how fantastic the situation. And second, I want to make one thing perfectly clear." She looked at Sherlock, then at Watson.

"What is that, Miss Andrews?"

"I'm not lying to you."

"We have no reason to presume that you are." Watson replied, looking up from his notebook in surprise.

"I know, but I just want to assure you of that. I won't lie to you…my story isn't easy to accept. Lying to you would be a waste not only of your time, but mine."

"We understand, Miss Andrews." Holmes leaned towards her, his fingertips together. "State your case."

She took a deep breath, and then, looking straight into Mr. Holmes' eyes, said, "I'm from the 21st century."


	2. The Time Machine

_A/N I'm having a blast writing this, and I want to thank all those who reviewed my first chapter. Your comments are kind (in some cases funny) and are greatly appreciated. I hope I keep on meeting your expectations. Further critique is of course welcome._

_One further note: I am from America, so I'm trying to do the best I can with British vs. American slang. To my fellow American readers: the "cellar" is the British term for "basement." I guess "basement" is only used for department stores and the like._

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Chapter Two: The Time Machine

Dr. Watson's scratching pen stopped abruptly, and he looked at her, startled. "I beg your pardon?" He glanced at Holmes, who was now sitting up quite straight in his chair.

"I'm from the 21st century," she repeated, doing her best not to show her uneasiness. _I don't blame them for those looks on their faces…I wouldn't believe me either._ "From the year 2007. I—here." She reached into her jeans pocket and pulled out some coins. She handed them to Mr. Holmes. "You can see the years…"

Holmes studied the coins, turning them over. They were of a newer design than he was familiar with, and the years read 1995, 2004, 1999, 2006, and 2000. He turned his gaze back to Miss Andrews as he handed them over to Watson, who looked at them wonderingly.

"I was born in the year 1981," she continued. "I came back to 1895 with a time machine my father built." She held out her hand as Watson gave back the coins.

"For what reason?" Mr. Holmes asked.

"I need to give you a little background before I get to that, I'm afraid."

"Go on." He settled back into his chair, a finger against his lips in an attentive fashion.

She paused for a moment, gathering her thoughts, and then began. "My father, Henry Andrews, owned a large company named Naturtech—"

"Owned?" Watson asked, pausing again from his note-taking.

"Yes. He…" Her voice caught, and it was nearly a full minute before she was able to continue. "He passed away in January."

Despite the outright weirdness of the whole ordeal, Watson's heart went out to her, and he said, "I'm sorry."

She smiled gratefully at him. "Thank you, Dr. Watson."

"Please continue, Miss Andrews." Holmes said curtly, throwing the briefest look of annoyance in Watson's direction.

"Right, sorry." She cleared her throat. "He owned a large company called Naturtech, which creates machines and objects that cause little or no harm to the environment. It's one of the largest corporations in London, in my time. My father was a brilliant inventor. He started the company and came up with most of the machines that were—and still are—produced there. One of his inventions was a time machine. Now, no one knew about this time machine save my father, his vice president (my godfather) Walter Birmingham, and me. He didn't think that the mankind was ready for such a machine, so he never introduced it to the public."

"But information of it was leaked somehow."

She cast a startled look at Mr. Holmes. _How on Earth…well, he IS Sherlock Holmes, what did you expect?_ "Yes. That's exactly right. I really don't know how it happened. Perhaps my father was overheard. However it happened, Jason Lanaghan found out about it."

"Jason Lanaghan?"

"Yes. He was a friend of one of the board members. He's a historian…he was at the company quite a bit, so I saw him frequently. I was personal assistant to my father after I finished college, so I helped him oversee everything. He—Jason, I mean—pursued me for awhile, but I saw right through him; he was only after my money. After he realized I wasn't interested, he backed off.

After a few months, he started coming around to my office again, and once he asked me about the time machine, just casually. I told him off, and he let it go.

But after my father died, he started coming around again, frequently -- almost every other day, and asked about the machine on almost every occasion. I refused to tell him anything, and he finally lost his temper at me. When I threatened to call the police, he left, and I didn't see him again for about two weeks. I thought it was the end of that…."

"But it wasn't."

"No. The next time I saw him was last night. I…." She lowered her eyes, gathering her thoughts. "I was up late, taking care of some things for work. I was in my room, and all of a sudden, the entire house went dark. Our closest neighbors live some distance away, but I could still see their lights, so I knew it wasn't a normal power outage." At their puzzled faces, she added quickly, "Electricity – electric light is almost all we use now…I mean, in the future…we don't use gas-light anymore," she said, glancing at the lamp on the table. "Sometimes the power to the electric light gets cut off."

She paused for a moment, but Mr. Holmes nodded slightly at her, as if to say, "continue."

"I knew it wasn't a normal power outage, and so I grabbed my knapsack." She leaned over a pulled said knapsack into view. "My father always told me to have a knapsack on hand…he did have his enemies, and just in case something happened…a fire, a burglary, anything, he wanted me to be ready.

So I took it and started to go downstairs – my room is on the second floor. I was halfway down the stairs when I heard gunshots. I was so afraid I didn't think I could move, but before I knew it, I was at the bottom of the stairs. I was going to go out the front door, but I heard voices coming my way. I crept through the living room and into the dining room – I thought I'd just go out the…the kitchen door." Her voice stuttered.

Watson paused in his writing to glance at her; she had suddenly gone pale, and frankly, looked as if she might be sick.

"Go on, Miss Andrews," Mr. Holmes said softly, folding his long fingers together.

She swallowed and took a deep breath. "I was going to go out the kitchen door, but Tom and Gina…our butler and cook…they were lying there, dead. I've…I've never seen someone shot before. Their…their blood was everywhere…." Her voice trembled, and she put a hand to her mouth, closing her eyes temporarily. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I guess I haven't thought this all through yet…it's finally hitting me now."

Watson quietly rose from his chair and went to the door, where he asked the be-slippered butler standing outside to fetch some fresh tea. When he resumed his seat, she was looking slightly better. "Sorry," she said again, and once more took a deep, shaking breath. "Okay…after I found the…the bodies, I ran out of the room, back into the dining room. I heard men's voices coming in my direction, so I took the other way out of the dining room and hid near the cellar door. I listened for a moment to them talking, and one voice cut above the rest. It was Jason, and I heard him say something about the time machine.

In my knapsack, I carried a spare set of keys to the safe where we kept the time machine. I knew I had to keep him from getting the machine, so I opened the cellar door and went down. My house is quite old, so all the doors creek horribly. When I closed it, it creaked so loud that I was sure one of them had heard it, and so I went down the stairs as fast as I could. I heard them walking overhead, and I knew they were going to come down in the cellar…I ran to the safe and went through the combination, then unlocked the box that we keep the machine in. I heard someone open the door to the cellar, and so as quietly and quickly as I could, I put the machine under my arm, and ran in the opposite direction. Our house is situated on a hill, so we had a walk-out cellar built. Sometimes it floods, but let me tell you, I was never so happy to have that door as I was last night.

I heard Jason shout "she's getting away!" and I knew he was in the cellar, so I ran as fast as my legs would carry me. We live on the outskirts of London, and I could see the city lights, so I decided to try for there. Our closest neighbors are about the same distance away, but I figured I could catch someone going into the city to escape Jason.

I could hear him behind me, occasionally yelling. He was a good distance behind, but I realized that I couldn't outrun him. Even though I exercise regularly, I knew I couldn't outrun him…especially with a time machine and a knapsack. So I chose what seemed to be the only route of escape."

"The machine."

"Right. I stopped running. I didn't have time to see what year it was set to, but I set the correct dials and combinations in order for it to work. It has to warm itself up…get the circuitry flowing…that takes about a minute, and suddenly Jason was close. And he was getting closer by the second. Then suddenly the machine made the whirring noise it makes when it's ready, and everything started to fade.

But at the last second, I felt someone grab the other end of the time machine. Everything went black for a second, and when it came back into focus, I was here, in Victorian London.

I was in a section of the city that I guess must have been knocked down in the future, because there are roads there in my time. Jason had the other end of the time machine, and though I held on, he tore it out of my grasp, and took hold of my arm. He's usually very composed, but I could tell he was just as startled as I was at our surroundings. He looked over the time machine and started to yell at me, asking how it operated.

That's when I remembered that we kept the blueprints of the machine in a safe in our attic; there was no way he could operate it. I started to pull away from him, but he's strong. I wouldn't have escaped if that carriage hadn't come around the corner. It almost ran us over, but it caused him to let go of me, and while it was separating us, I ran down an alley way. I don't really know where I ran after that, I just turned right and left and went through every street and alley I could, making sure not to go in a straight line. I must have run for at least an hour.

After I was sure he wasn't following me, I finally slowed down. I was in an empty street, so I sat down on the pavement to figure out what to do. There was a newspaper in the street, and I picked it up to find out what year it was…er, is. I decided it was best to keep walking, and when I turned the corner, I saw this building." She gestured around her. "I recognized it as the historic site of the Diogenes Club, and I was pretty sure that I would find your brother here, Mr. Holmes."

The butler had brought tea while Miss Andrews had been talking, and Watson poured her a fresh cup.

"Oh. Thank you, Dr. Watson." She sipped at it.

"So Mr. Lanaghan is running about London with your time machine." Mr. Holmes said shortly.

"I'm afraid so, sir. But he can't operate it. I need to find the time machine, find Jason, and get back to the future…without him gaining the upper hand. I wouldn't tell him how to work the machine…at least I say that now. But there are ways of making people talk that I can't even imagine."

"Indeed." Mr. Holmes was leaned far back in his chair, fingertips together, lips pursed.

"I don't think I need to tell you how important it is that we get that machine back. If I'm captured by him, and if he finds out how to operate the machine, there's no limit to the damage he can do…to the future, and the past. That's why I need your help, Mr. Holmes."

"And you have it, Miss Andrews," he said, straightening suddenly. "Tell me about Mr. Lanaghan."

"Like, physical characteristics or personality?"

"Both."

"Well, he's tall. Not quite as tall as you, Mr. Holmes…I guess I'd put him at five foot ten or eleven. He has wavy reddish-blond hair which he usually wears in a short pony tail, and has one of his ears pierced with a gold hoop. His eyes are…" Here she paused, and her brow furrowed as she thought. "His eyes are hard to describe. They're hooded, and a blue, slate kind of colour, but they're…they're _cold._ I can't describe it any other way; you'd know what I mean if you saw him. He's always got an impassive, icy look on his face. As for personality, like I've already said, he's seems very composed all the time. He's wealthy and used to getting his way. He's very capable, very resourceful, and I don't doubt that by tonight he'll have made some connections—" Suddenly Christine gasped loudly; her hands flew to her mouth, and her eyes centered on Mr. Holmes.

Watson stared at her, wide-eyed. "Good heavens," he cried. "What is it?"

Holmes leaned forward, and Mycroft stirred in his chair.

"Mr. – Mr. Holmes, did….have you already…did you…I mean, has pr—" She fell suddenly silent as the detective took her hands.

"Miss Andrews, calm yourself." He waited for her to take a few deep breaths, released her hands, and then said, "Now, what has alarmed you?"

"Mr. Holmes, have you…have you been to Reichenbach Falls?"

His eyes glittered momentarily, understanding her full meaning, and he once more reclined in his chair. "Yes, Miss Andrews."

Watson thought he'd never seen someone so relieved as Miss Andrews when she heard this.

"Thank God," she said, rubbing her eyes. She looked back at them. "I was just thinking that if Professor Moriarty was still alive, Jason would be sure to find him."

"It would seem that Mr. Lanaghan is a very dangerous man."

"He is," Christine said. Her voice grew hushed. "I made some inquiries about him. There are rumors that he's been involved in hundreds of crimes in London, but no one can pin him down to prove it."

"Sounds almost like a futuristic Moriarty," Watson commented.

"He is," Christine said, "But not as intelligent. He _is_ intelligent, don't get me wrong, but Moriarty was on another level."

"You seem to know us well, Miss Andrews."

A sudden smile sprang onto her features, and she undid the front-most pocket of her knapsack. From it, she pulled a very thick – and very worn – book. She held it up for them to see. "I've read all of your cases," she said. The book cover read _The Complete Cases of Sherlock Holmes by Dr. John H. Watson._

Watson's face broke into an identical smile, and the corner of Holmes' mouth twitched.

"At least the published ones." She put the book back into its place, then sat, hands folded, the smile now faded and gone. "Is there anything else you need to know, Mr. Holmes?"

"I don't believe so," Mr. Holmes said, standing. "Where may I reach you, Miss Andrews?"

"Oh." A bewildered look came over her face. "I don't know. I hadn't thought that far."

"Holmes," Watson said quietly, also standing. He took his friend aside, near Mycroft's chair. "She hasn't got a place to stay. Mrs. Hudson has cleaned out the room above mine that was used for storage and she's been trying to let that room for a week. Why don't we have Miss Andrews stay with us? It'd be the safest place for her."

"I think that's an excellent suggestion," the heavy voice of Mycroft came. The two of them looked at him, startled. They'd had no idea he'd been listening. "I certainly can't keep her here."

Sherlock didn't answer at once, but changed the subject. "What do you think of it, Mycroft?"

"As I said, Sherlock, it's most singular. She related her story to me before you arrived. That Lanaghan fellow sounds like he could present some problems. Do tell me how it turns out, won't you." With that, he settled deeper into his armchair, folded his great arms across his chest and closed his eyes.

The ghost of a smile flickered across Sherlock's face at his brother's indolence.

"Well, Holmes? What do you say?" Watson asked.

Holmes glanced at Miss Andrews, who was sitting very patiently, hands in her lap, very obviously trying to keep herself from glancing their way or overhearing their conversation. "Alright, Watson. Come, Miss Andrews!" He said more loudly, striding across the room and gathering up his top hat. "You're to come with us to Baker Street."


	3. 221B

_A/N Sorry for the delay, everybody! Thanks for waiting!_

_This chapter took too long. It's not my favourite chapter, and I'm very anxious to hear feedback._

_If anyone is interested in seeing my visual representations of the characters in my fanfiction, please visit: silvre./art/Christine-Andrews-86078768_

_Thanks for reading!!_

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Chapter Three: 221B

Christine zipped her coat up; the chilly March wind cut right through her. As she stood between Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes, who hailed a cab, she was reminded once more of how short she was. A slight, rueful smile crept to her lips, which dissolved quickly as another gust of wind tore against them.

Dr. Watson had her knapsack; he had refused to let her carry it. She looked at the doctor out of the corner of her eye. He looked exactly as she had imagined. Not tall, but not short, well built, impeccably dressed, with a brown mustache and hair that was greying. His eyes were a bluish grey, a kind sort of colour that matched the rest of his face. She instantly liked him; he had a very personable, friendly manner about him, and was, above all, a gentleman.

She glanced at Mr. Holmes. He too, was very gentlemanly, yet was so different than his partner. Well over six feet, thin, pale and with dark hair slicked back, he cut an impressive figure. He was very well-dressed, just like the doctor; his coat was brushed clean, his top hat shined and his cravat as straight as could be. But there was an edge to the detective that she could not miss, a vigor, an intensity that she saw every time she looked into his glinting green eyes. He was so calm, but she sensed the energy that was pent up inside of him, waiting to be released on the case at hand.

The carriage pulled up, and Mr. Holmes held out a gloved hand to her. She looked at it, puzzled for a moment, as he simultaneously opened the door. Then she realized that he meant to help her into the cab, and took it.

As she grasped his hand and stepped into the carriage, Holmes could not help but notice how _light_ she was. But then again, figuring in her height, she _was_ a very small young woman. But as surprised as he was at her weight, he was equally surprised at her grip, which was strong for someone her size.

After she had seated herself, he stepped inside himself and sat across from her. He took the knapsack from Watson as the doctor positioned himself on the seat next to him, and they were off.

It was not a long distance to Baker Street, but a cab was safer for Miss Andrews, not to mention less conspicuous; he couldn't have her being stared at. Besides, he had a few more questions. "Tell me, Miss Andrews," he said after a few moments of silence, causing her to tear her gaze from the cab window, "Do all women dress in that fashion in the future?"

She looked briefly at herself, and threw him small smile. "Not all, but most, Mr. Holmes." She shifted her legs, and consciously brought her knees together. At home she could sit as leisurely as she wanted, with her legs every which way – but this wasn't home.

"I'm pretty sure that blue jeans are the most popular clothing item in the world," she continued. "Both men and women wear them." She gestured to her coat. "This was actually my grandfather's. I like to wear it because it's very comfortable around this time of year."

"What is that metallic lining on the front?"

Her eyebrows came together in confusion. "Sorry?" She looked down at herself again, but her head snapped up almost immediately. "Oh! You mean the zipper!" She pulled it down and back up once. "They're used for jackets and knapsacks and things. They're more convenient and less time-consuming than buttons."

"And may I ask what sort of shoes you are wearing?"

"_Holmes…"_ Watson said softly. He didn't think it was right of the detective to inquire about a woman's attire so off-handedly.

"It's alright, Dr. Watson," Miss Andrews smiled widely. "These are trainers. Americans call them sneakers or tennis shoes. They're used particularly in athletics, but they're also very popular for everyday wear. Mine are made by Nike."

"Nike? The Roman goddess?" Holmes asked, cocking an eyebrow.

She smiled again and shrugged. "I suppose that's where they got the name. It's one of the biggest training shoe companies in the world."

Mr. Holmes inclined his head slightly as if to say "ah."

The cab fell into silence for a few moments, until Christine cleared her throat. "Um, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, I just wanted to apologize in advance for anything…rude I might say."

Mr. Holmes raised his eyebrows and fixed her with an almost amused expression.

"It's just that I'm not quite sure how women are supposed to behave in this time period. I just want you to know that it's not my intention if I do or say anything that offends you."

"I wouldn't let it worry you, Miss Andrews—" Watson began, but the carriage suddenly came to a stop.

Christine looked out the window and saw the familiar — and yet _unfamiliar_ —surroundings of Baker Street. Many of the buildings were still there in her time, but several more had been knocked down decades ago. Grocers' stores and barber shops met her eyes, in places where she was so used to seeing tall buildings of steel and glass. It was beginning to really sink in, now. She was in the Victorian era. Everything she knew of didn't exist. No one she knew was even _born_ yet, and wouldn't be for another sixty years or so.

"Miss Andrews?"

Dr. Watson's voice broke her from her reverie. He was standing outside the cab, holding out a hand to her.

Mr. Holmes was watching her, and she glanced at him briefly before taking the doctor's hand and stepping out onto the pavement. She distantly heard Mr. Holmes get out behind her and pay the cabbie, but she wasn't very attentive to these facts.

Her mind was focused entirely on the building before her. It was so familiar to her; the steps leading to the heavy front door, with the address printed on the half-circle window above it: 221B. She'd seen it so many times, gone inside on more occasions than she could recall, to view the museum that had been created in honor of the great detective. It was amazing to her how much better it fit in the current surroundings.

Encircled by the clean, sharp lines of the modern buildings of 21st century London, 221B Baker Street had always seemed out of place to her. But here in its native time, it seemed quite usual.

Mr. Holmes strode past her and pulled the keys out of his pocket to unlock the door, and made his way in without a word. Dr. Watson had her knapsack, and he gestured for her to go in ahead of him.

She did so, climbing the steps and making her way into, not a museum, but the actual living quarters of Sherlock Holmes. As she stood in the hallway, with Dr. Watson shutting the door behind her, she nearly collided with an elderly lady who came bustling through a door which she saw led to the kitchen.

"_Mr. Holmes!" _she called impatiently, and caused the detective, who was halfway up the stairs to the first floor, to turn on his heel.

Christine realized with a barely-hidden smile that this was Mrs. Hudson, the famous landlady.

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson?" Holmes asked.

"You barely touched your breakfast. You know, I've had quite enough of this, it's a wonder you're alive—"

"Mrs. Hudson, I've found you a tenant."

"And furthermore—I beg your pardon?"

Holmes nodded behind her.

Mrs. Hudson turned. "Oh!"

"Hello ma'am." Christine said. She extended a hand, and Mrs. Hudson shook it briefly, casting a strange eye on her clothing.

"Hello, Miss…?"

"Christine Andrews."

"Miss Andrews." The landlady smiled warmly at her. "Are you a friend of Mr. Holmes? Or perhaps Dr. Watson?" Her eyes twinkled at the doctor when she said this, and though Christine could not see him, he reddened slightly.

"She is a client, Mrs. Hudson," Holmes interjected, "And is in need of lodgings." He strode quickly down the steps and stood close to the woman. He lowered his voice and said, "She also will be in very serious danger if she is found. If things heat up, you may have to leave for a week."

Mrs. Hudson's face grew grave, and she glanced at Christine. After a moment, she replied, "Very well, Mr. Holmes." She nodded curtly, then whisked away into another side room. She emerged a few moments later, her arms laden with blankets. "It gets quite chilly in that room, Miss Andrews. But don't you fret, I'll have it comfortable for you."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, you're very kind."

The landlady smiled at her again, took one more look at her out-of-place attire, and made her way up the stairs.

"This way, Miss Andrews," Mr. Holmes said, ascending the steps once more, "You may sit in our consulting room while Mrs. Hudson is readying your room."

Christine could barely contain her excitement as she stood in the consulting room of Sherlock Holmes. _This is what it's _supposed_ to look like,_ she thought, recalling the museum of the future. _There's his chemistry set! And the _actual_ Persian slipper! And the VR, of course._ She smiled as she eyed the patriotic bullet-hole letters.

She took in a deep breath, and fought back a cough. The room smelt strongly of tobacco, of the cigarette, pipe and cigar type. It wasn't horrible, though. She was somewhat used to the smell; her father and godfather would like to light their pipes in the evening when they visited each other.

The thought of her father once again caused her throat to tighten, and she looked around the room to try and occupy her mind with something else. _I shouldn't be feeling so excited or happy…a terrible mess has brought me here. I wouldn't be here at all if it weren't for Jason._

It was a strange, bittersweet thought. She was now in the rooms of two of the most famous men in London history -- two men that she admired greatly for their stand in justice -- but at what expense? Her butler and cook were lying dead, over one hundred years in the future, in her kitchen; her wellbeing was at stake, and there was a madman on the loose in Victorian London with a time machine.

_But at least it's a time machine he can't operate._

"Would you like to sit, Miss Andrews?" Dr. Watson asked, removing several sheets of newspaper draped over the sofa back.

"Oh, yes. Thank you." She fought the urge to close a drawer as she passed; she usually kept her room quite clean and orderly. The _museum_ was very clean…the reality of the flat was unexpected; volumes were stacked precariously on top of cabinets and desks, papers flowed out of drawers, vials and bottles of unknown chemicals sprawled the length of a table in the corner, one bubbling away. It was all so eccentric that it nearly made her smile.

Mr. Holmes reached into his pocket for his cigarette case. He swept a match along the mantle with a dry scrape and it ignited; he lowered it to his mouth, out of which the cigarette protruded.

She watched him replace the cigarette case back into his coat, then lowered herself onto the sofa. She stood again, however; the coins in her pocket had shifted in such a way that she was now sitting on them. She took them out, and swung her knapsack, which the doctor had placed next to the sofa, in front of her.

She unzipped one of the many pockets, and the coins fell in with a jingle. As she bent over the knapsack, she was sure that the doctor and the detective were both looking at her. When she sat up suddenly, she saw that she was right, although the gentlemen tried to cover up the fact.

Mr. Holmes sat and reclined in his chair; Dr. Watson did the same, crossing one foot over his opposite knee. Through the bluish tendrils of smoke that curled from his lips, Christine saw that the detective kept stealing glances at her knapsack.

Finally, she smiled softly and said, "Would you like to see anything else from my knapsack – from the future I mean? I'd be very happy to show you." She bent over and unzipped the largest section. _What can I show them…?_

Holmes watched her intently as she rummaged through the pack, pulling out certain things halfway and then putting them back. As she pulled out a smallish silver object, another heavy object fell at her feet.

She quickly snatched it up. But as she straightened up again, Mr. Holmes had fixed her with a curious stare, one eyebrow cocked, and she knew he had seen it.

"It's not mine," she protested. "Well, it _is_, but it was my grandfather's first." She opened her hands to reveal a pair of brass knuckles. "Sometimes business takes me into…unsavory parts of London, and Daddy—er, my _father_—wanted me to have something to defend myself."

"Unsavory parts of London?" Watson echoed. "You go alone?"

"Yes, of course—" She caught herself. She had just sounded very condescending and rude. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to say it like that. We – women – are very independent in the future. I do all sorts of errands and meet clients on a daily basis on my own. But if I do have to go into more unpleasant areas, I have my cell phone. And if worst comes to worst, these." She held up the brass knuckles briefly and then deposited them back in her knapsack.

"Cell phone?" Watson asked.

She nodded and held up the silver object she had taken out earlier. She lowered it again as she asked, "The telephone _has_ been invented, hasn't it?"

Dr. Watsons' mustache curled upwards as he smiled. "Yes."

She laughed sheepishly. "Sorry, sometimes I get my history timeline confused." She passed him the cell phone. "A cell phone is a portable version of the telephone. You can take it pretty much anywhere and call anyone else who has a telephone or cell phone."

"What are the numbers for?"

Her eyebrows furrowed together in confusion. "That's…how you make a call." She smiled as realization came to her. "Oh, wait. You have to call through an operator, right?"

Dr. Watson nodded.

"Okay. See, in the future, everyone gets a telephone – or cell phone – number. Each number has seven digits and is different, so you don't have to go through an operator. It's quicker that way."

"It sounds as if _everything_ is faster in the future," Holmes commented, releasing a cloud of smoke from his mouth.

"It is. And we're always looking for ways to make it even quicker. It saves time." She heard the door creak behind her, and hurriedly took the cell phone from Dr. Watson to drop it back into her knapsack.

The doctor got to his feet and walked quickly to the door; Mrs. Hudson entered with a tray bearing a teapot and cups. "I'll have luncheon ready in a few minutes," she announced, setting the tray on the table.

"Thank you Mrs. Hudson." Dr. Watson said.

The landlady cast a disapproving eye at Mr. Holmes' desk, which could barely be seen underneath a mess of papers, newspaper clippings and a vial or two, then turned to leave.

"Mrs. Hudson," Mr. Holmes said, and she stopped. "What is for lunch?"

"I'll have it ready in a few moments."

"That is _not_ what I asked." He tossed the remainder of his cigarette into the fire and sat up straight in his chair. "You're not cooking cabbage soup, Mrs. Hudson?" He asked sharply.

A smile crossed her face and she walked out.

He got to his feet and ran to the door. "I cannot stand the smell of cabbage!" He called loudly after her, making sure she could hear him as she descended the stairs.

Christine bit her lower lip to keep from laughing, and exchanged amused looks with Dr. Watson until their meal was ready.


	4. Baths, Deductions and Torture

A/N Again, I want to thank all of my readers for being so supportive and patient as I write this

_**A/N**__ Again, I want to thank all of my readers for being so supportive, kind and patient as I write this. I appreciate all your comments and critique. _

_I know some people have pointed out that Sherlock Holmes has grey eyes, not green. I just wanted to let you know that I'm basing this story half off the canon and half off the Granada series with Jeremy Brett (who had green eyes)._

_More chapters soon, thanks for reading!_

**Chapter Four: Restless**

To Holmes' relief, it was potato and leek soup, not cabbage.

He said nothing as Mrs. Hudson laid out the ham, soup and a vegetable dish, but when she began to leave, he said loudly with a hint of laughter in his voice, "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

She nodded, eyes twinkling, and left the room.

Christine was famished. She hadn't eaten since yesterday evening. She never thought anything tasted as good as Mrs. Hudson's luncheon, topped off with a nice cup of tea. The meal was a quiet one, though Mr. Holmes asked her a few questions regarding the level of Jason's education.

She explained that as far as she knew, he had had a very good education, had attended the University of Cambridge and eventually became a historian.

Mrs. Hudson came in with another fresh pot of tea as Christine was finishing the explanation. As the landlady removed the luncheon dishes, she remarked, "You look fatigued, Miss Andrews."

"Hmm?" Christine looked up at her, fighting back a wide yawn. "Oh yes. Sorry, I—"

"I'll draw you a bath and you can rest. Your room is all ready."

"Thank you Mrs. Hudson." Christine glanced at Mr. Holmes, but his back was to her from where he stood at the fireplace. So she looked to Dr. Watson, and at his approving nod, followed Mrs. Hudson out of the room.

The landlady took her up a set of stairs, then led her past a well kept room with a model ship on the dresser and a black leather bag on the bed.

"That's Dr. Watson's room," Mrs. Hudson said, smiling. She opened a door at the end of the hall, which led up another small set of stairs. "Yours is just up here." The stairway opened onto a short hallway with two doors, one on each side of the corridor.

Christine was greeted by a small but cheery room. A low fire was crackling in the fireplace at one end of the room; at the opposite end was a bed with a floral patterned blanket and clean white pillow. A basin of water, a pitcher and a small stack of towels rested on a wooden dresser, next to a small writing desk and chair. Just left of the dresser was a window which overlooked the alleyway between the 221B and the building next door.

"It's lovely," Christine said. "Thank you so much, Mrs. Hudson."

"Not at all, dear. Now come this way and we'll get you a nice hot bath."

"Well, Holmes?" Watson asked after Miss Andrews had gone.

"Well?" the detective replied, turning from the fireplace.

"What do you think of her?" He strolled to his chair and sat. "Or rather, what do you deduce?"

Holmes lit a cigarette and settled into his armchair opposite the doctor. "She is very confident, independent -- although she is certainly not the first such woman to take us into her confidence -- well educated..." His hand made a circular motion in the air, as if to say 'etcetera," and took a long drag at the cigarette. As he released the smoke in a slow puff, he settled further into his chair. "Besides those characteristics, she plays the harp, is an orphan, was involved in ballet for some time, and has a set of both Italian and Irish grandparents."

Watson could not help but let out a short laugh. It didn't matter how many times he heard his friend make his deductions. It never failed to amaze him. "Alright, let's have it."

The detective's eyebrows raised slightly as he began. "Miss Andrews' fingertips are calloused. The fact that all the fingertips are marked in this way leads me to believe that she plays the harp, rather than the violin or cello...the right hand is the bow hand and would not be calloused if she played one of the other instruments I have just mentioned.

We know that her father has lately died; she told us herself. I know that her mother is also deceased, and has been for some time. You see, the mother would have been in the house at the time of the burglary and would have not been out or on holiday due to her husband's recent passing. If she had also died within the last year, I believe Miss Andrews would have mentioned it.

As for her grandparents, one set being Italian and the other being Irish. Miss Andrews makes rather wide gestures with her hands when she speaks -- ah, you noticed -- and it is very common in Italian families. The locket around her neck is very old, almost certainly an heirloom, and is of a Celtic design. I deduce her grandparents rather than her parents because if her parents were directly from either country, Miss Andrews would have some sort of accent to reveal the fact that she was often in close proximity of someone directly from those areas."

"And the ballet?"

"Did you notice how she walks, Watson? On her toes. Even when ascending the stairs. Ballet dancers are so often on their toes and have a certain lightness in their step that I have noticed in Miss Andrews."

Christine sighed as she sank deeper in the hot water, lowering herself until she was in up to her chin. She was so fresh, clean…and sleepy. She'd been in the bath for several minutes, but was reluctant to get out, even to go to bed. She stared at her knees, breaking the top of the soapy water, and slowly let her eyelids droop. _I'll just close them for a moment._

A rapping on the door caused her to sit bolt upright. She made ready to grab a towel draped over the chair near her. "Yes?"

"It's Mrs. Hudson, dear."

"Oh." She found a washcloth in the midst of the suds and held it to her chest. "Come in," she called.

Mrs. Hudson opened and closed the door quickly. She had a bundle of neatly folded clothes in her arm and looped about her other arm, a measuring tape. The landlady set the clothes down on the chair and turned to Christine, flapping the towel open. "Here, dear. Let's get you out of that water and into some nice dry clothes."

Christine took one last longing glance at the water and stood, taking the towel from Mrs. Hudson, who held it up like a curtain.

"Now, I found some older clothes of mine when I was…a _slimmer_ woman…" Mrs. Hudson said with a touch of regret, holding up what looked like a nightgown. "These underclothes are a little out of fashion, but they'll do for now."

_For now?_ Christine thought as she dried herself. She took the underclothes, which consisted of a silky tank-top like shirt and what looked like a pair of bloomers. They were white, clean and very lacy. _Oh I hope these don't itch._

They did. _This…is going to take some getting used to._

She had just gotten the bloomers on when Mrs. Hudson said, "Now straighten up and hold still while I take your measurements."

"Measurements?" Christine asked, rather startled.

"Yes, for your new clothes!" Mrs. Hudson laughed. The laugh dwindled away as she brought the measuring tape around Christine's chest. "Mr. Holmes told me that you lost nearly all of your luggage on the way over from America, poor thing. Lift up your arms, please. You had to wear boy's clothes – your American cousin's, he said. What a shame, all of your things."

"Yes, that…that was dreadful." Christine nodded in agreement. _Well done, Mr. Holmes._

"Those horrible American trousers…" the landlady mumbled as she

"You haven't gotten rid of them," Christine asked, hoping she didn't sound too anxious.

"Not yet – did you want to keep them?" Mrs. Hudson asked as she circled the tape around her waist.

"I wanted to send them back to my cousin, they aren't mine after all."

"Alright, Miss Andrews. But I _am_ going to wash them first."

"Of course. Thank you so much, Mrs. Hudson."

"Not at all dear, not at all." She wrote some numbers on a slip of paper, then held up a plain white dress with blue trim. "I know this isn't in line with the latest fashions, but it will have to do until we order your new things. I doubt that you'll be going out tonight anyhow."

After changing, Christine slept. She napped for hours, and missed tea time altogether. Mrs. Hudson woke her for dinner, and she joined the gentleman, who she'd not seen since luncheon, for her evening meal.

Sherlock Holmes sat at the table and began to lift the lid to their main course.

_"Holmes." _

The detective glanced up at Watson. "What's wrong?"

"Don't you think we should wait for Miss Andrews?"

Holmes' fingers paused on the lid for a moment, then withdrew as he emitted a barely-audible sigh of annoyance.

They sat in silence for a few moments, then Watson pushed back his chair and got to his feet. "I'll see if she's ready." Just as he reached the door handle, a soft knock sounded on the other side. He pulled open the door to reveal a startled Miss Andrews. "Oh - thank you, Dr. Watson."

It was a half second before he responded; instead of the trousers and white button-up shirt that his mind's eye associated with the person of Miss Andrews, she was wearing a pretty - if outdated - white high-necked dress. Her hair was up in a simple bun; little ringlets fell on either side of her forehead. "Certainly. Did you sleep well?"

"Tolerably well, thank you." She moved towards her chair.

"Allow me."

She smiled up at the doctor as he pulled back her chair and pushed it in as she sat.

As this was going on, Holmes tried to conceal a smile. There was no doubt that Miss Andrews was an attractive woman, and she, like many female clients of his, had certainly turned Watson's head.

Watson allowed Miss Andrews to serve herself first, then he and Holmes took their shares.

Christine ate slowly, deliberately, trying desperately to think of something to say to them. The feeling of sitting to dinner with Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson, the awe of it, was incredible to her. She wished she could tell them how much of an honor it was to be here, but she was frightened she might come across as some kind of gushing fangirl. She cut into her meat thoughtfully, and rose the fork to her mouth.

"How long have you played the harp, Miss Andrews?"

The fork halted abruptly in mid-air, and she cast a surprised look at Mr. Holmes, whose sharp eyes were staring at her over a glass of sherry. A smile broke upon her lips. "Since I was nine, Mr. Holmes."

"Ah. I knew it was a considerable length of time."

"How did you -- wait, let me guess." She put her fork down and thought for a moment. She was aware that both he and the doctor were watching her. "Oh, my fingers. Of course."

He nodded once to show that she was right.

She wiped her hands on her napkin and settled back in her chair. "What else did you deduce about me, Mr. Holmes?"

The detective listed off the characteristics he had gone through with Watson earlier, leaving the fact that her mother was deceased for last.

"Yes, she died when I was sixteen. I was going to compete in the Olympics that year, but I didn't end up going through with it."

"The Olympics? In what year are women allowed to compete? Certainly not next year," Watson inquired, raising an eyebrow.

"Next year?" Christine threw him a confused look.

"Yes, they've revived the Olympic Games…it's being held in Athens."

She unintentionally put a hand to her mouth in surprise. "You mean next year is the _first_ Olympiad?"

He nodded. "I believe so."

She lowered her hand. "Wow, that's so cool."

"Cool?" Mr. Holmes asked, his left eyebrow arching.

"Yes, I mean, the _first­—_oh. Cool. It means…it's slang. It means great, or fascinating…anything positive."

"Ah."

"And what area were you going to compete in the Olympics, Miss Andrews?"

"Gymnastics," Christine answered, "I've been involved in gymnastics since I was seven. It keeps me fit, I love doing it. Although I haven't found much time for it lately." She lowered her eyes, and then turned her gaze out the window.

Watson knew that she must be thinking of her father, and searched for something to say. She was very young to have lost her father, though, upon reflection, his father had died when he was a young man. He finished his bread roll and then motioned to Holmes to pass the sherry. "Would you like some, Miss Andrews?"

Christine turned away from the window. "Please. Thank you, doctor."

"Certainly."

Mr. Holmes got to his feet and strode to the fireplace. It seemed to Christine that he was agitated. _I hope he's not that way because of me._

But he was, in a way. Holmes took his pipe from the mantle, stuffed it with tobacco from the Persian slipper and bent to light it with a coal from the fireplace. He wasn't used to being so cordial _all_ the time. It was different when a client _called_ on him, but he wasn't accustomed to one of his clients staying on the premises indefinitely. With only Watson living there, he didn't need to be concerned with pleases and thank yous and pulling out chairs and all of that other nonsense that he need only give attention to in public.

"Is it hard for you here, Miss Andrews?" Watson asked, causing Holmes to turn.

She placed her sherry glass on the table. "You mean to be here in this time period?"

He nodded.

"Yes." She nodded also, but the nod slowly turned into a shake of the head. "No. Not hard, just…different. No electricity, no telephones, no telephone wires, no automobiles, no TV, it's all very strange to me."

They passed the rest of the evening quietly. Christine tried to explain television to them, but was doubtful she had succeeded; she and Dr. Watson discussed the Olympics briefly, then she remembered something she had meant to ask Mr. Holmes earlier. "Mr. Holmes," she asked, and the detective raised his languid eyes to her through his pipe smoke.

"How did you know I have an American cousin? Mrs. Hudson told me what you said."

It was Holmes that was now surprised. He pulled his pipe out of his mouth. "I was not _aware_ that you did have an American cousin, Miss Andrews. You look disappointed," he added after a moment.

"Oh, no. I just thought you'd known somehow. It was a good cover-up story, anyhow."

A brief smile flickered across his face before he replaced the pipe into his mouth.

Christine gazed around the room again, until her eyes lingered on Mr. Holmes for a moment. A slight sparkle attracted her attention; it was his watch chain, and upon it was a sovereign.

_From Irene Adler?_ She wondered, and then her thoughts were broken by the chiming of the little clock on the mantle. Ten o' clock.

"I think I'm going to bed," she said softly, and stood.

Watson also stood. "Let me get the door for you, Miss Andrews."

"Thank you, Dr. Watson. I wish men were still so courteous."

"Do you mean that men don't even _open doors_ for ladies?" Watson asked, shocked.

If he hadn't been so serious, Christine would have laughed. "Not usually. If a woman is entering or leaving a building and a man is walking ahead, he'll hold it open sometimes. But it's never a sure thing."

"How unfortunate," the doctor said sadly, and went to the door.

Christine followed him, but stopped halfway there. "Oh, Mr. Holmes." She turned to him, and he raised his eyebrows. "About payment—"

The detective held up his hand and opened his mouth to say something, but Christine interjected be fore he could begin. "I certainly have the means to pay you, but I don't think it's a good idea to have futuristic money circulating."

"We shall figure things out at another time, Miss Andrews."

"I _will_ find a way to pay for your services, Mr. Holmes. I promise."

He nodded, and she made for the door, but she paused when he spoke again. "Miss Andrews, one thing more, before you retire."

"Yes, Mr. Holmes?"

"You said before that Mr. Lanaghan was a historian. What is his area of study?"

She shifted uncomfortably. When she turned, her eyes held a sort of fear that he did not like. It was several seconds before she finally answered, "Torture."

Medieval torture was his specialty, though he knew methods that spanned several countries and eras.

After Miss Andrews had gone to bed, he and Watson sat in silence for an hour, each with his own thoughts. Eleven o' clock struck at last, and with a wide yawn, Watson said, "Good-night Holmes."

The detective's only response was a curt nod as he puffed at his newly-relit pipe. The doctor could almost see the gears turning behind those distant green eyes, and left the room without a sound.

Holmes sat with his fingertips pressed together, letting the bluish tendrils of smoke drift lazily out of his mouth. His thoughts were on Lanaghan, and the best way to track him down.

_He won't be in the newspapers, that is certain. From what Miss Andrews said, he is an intelligent man and will do what he can to blend in with society. She was sure he would make some kind of connections...depending on who he falls in with, he may learn of me. He may come here himself._

_No, not himself. He would send someone in his stead, considering the fact that things may turn out of his favor._

_The newspaper is out. The police won't have heard anything either, and we cannot get them involved in this. _

_Pike may have heard something, and I shall put my boys on it._

He pulled the pipe out of his mouth and rubbed his fingers into his eyes. _Historian of torture..._

Christine lay in bed. Even with her afternoon-long nap, she was still tired. But despite her fatigue, despite the fact that she was perfectly warm and comfortable, and despite the fact that history's greatest detective was working on her case, she couldn't sleep.

_I have the utmost confidence in Mr. Holmes, but what if he can't find Jason? And what if Jason figures out how to operate the time machine? What if I become _stuck here?_ What will happen to the future if Jason figures it out? If I'm not there, what will happen to the world? The company? My friends, Walter?_

_What will I do?_

"I feel so helpless," she whispered into the darkness. As soon as the words left her mouth, she grew tense. She'd never felt like this before. There was always someone to fall back on, to support her. There'd always been her mother, her cousin, her friends, Walter….Her throat tightened and though she tried as hard as she could to stem the flow, tears came and streamed until she shook with silent sobs.

_Daddy…._


	5. Connections

Chapter Five: The Case Begins

_A/N Thanks again for reading! This chapter is a little more exciting than the other chapters. We learn a little more about Christine and a little more about Victorian fashion. I wanted to get this up, because I'm not sure how much time I'll have to write now that school's started, but I'll be working on it when I can. _

_Let me know if you see any grammatical errors, etc. I look forward to your comments and critique!!_

**Chapter Five: Connections**

Christine was awoken by a loud and frantic knocking on her door. She leapt out of bed and hurried to the door, grabbing a shawl Mrs. Hudson had left her as she went.

She opened the door a crack. "Dr. Watson? What—"

"You must hide, Miss Andrews!" the doctor whispered urgently. "There are three men looking for you, they're downstairs right now! Holmes and I will delay them, but you must hide yourself!"

Christine's eyes widened as the doctor said this, her mouth going dry. She nodded vigorously. "Alright! Hold them off as long as you can!"

He shut the door, leaving her alone. She spied her blue jeans and blouse on the desk chair, and threw them on. _What a way to wake up! I can't believe he's already got people after me! Darn it, Jason! Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, I hope you can keep them long enough!_

"Who are you? What are you doing—" Mrs. Hudson protested.

"Sorry mum, we're 'ere on business. Ah, you must be Mister Sherlock 'Olmes." The lanky, sandy-haired man looked up at the detective from underneath a tweed cap.

"I am," Holmes answered coldly from the landing of the stairs. He'd seen them approaching from across the street and had surmised from the looks on their faces that they weren't here to employ him. He'd sent Watson upstairs to warn Miss Andrews.

He surveyed the man in front of him and in one sweep of his eye knew that he would be a hard customer to keep out of the house. His nose had been broken – likely twice – his knuckles were calloused and bruised, his hands rough and his arms muscular like a man of the dockyard. But the tattoo on his left palm – a hammer and a sword crossed – led him to discern the true identity of the man.

This was Michael Rutherby, a man who had been associated with some of Moriarty's smaller crimes but had never been jailed for lack of proof.

Holmes eyed Rutherby's comrades – one was a big, quiet man with a thick neck and heavy brow. His hands were very rough, his nails short and cracked. He was most certainly a carpenter; the flecks of wood shavings on his pants confirmed it. The other man was a wiry, weasely man missing his left ring-finger. He reeked of the pungent, sweet smell of opium and was constantly running his tongue over his lower lip, his fingers twitching from time to time.

The former, Holmes was not concerned about. Though large, he did not seem to be very bright and therefore could be easily outsmarted.

The latter, however, contained something in his demeanor that Holmes did not like. His eyes were dark, squinting underneath his shock of white-blond hair and held a sort of cruel glint.

Rutherby's eyes held a different sort of light; his expressions were always of an arrogant, unfeeling air that reminded him of John Clay.

Rutherby ascended the first step. "We're lookin' for a lady by th' name of Christine Andrews, Mister 'Olmes. We think she's 'ere, and we mean to search th' place. You aren't going to stop us."

"There's no one named Christine Andrews here, Mr. Rutherby."

"Ah, I see my reputation proceeds me," he said with an exaggerated bow, never taking his blue eyes off of the detective.

"It does not do you credit." Holmes replied icily.

"What's up, Holmes?" Watson asked, peering over the railing, straightening his tie as if he'd just dressed.

"These men are looking for a woman named Christine Andrews?"

"Who?"

"That is precisely what I would like to know."

"None of your business, Mister 'Olmes. If she's not 'ere, you can forget th' 'ole thing ever 'appened." He put his thumbs in his coat lapels and planted a foot firmly on the next stair, one away from Holmes. "Now wot's it goin' to be, guv'nor?"

"I've got nothing to hide, Rutherby."

"Good," he replied, now equal in step with the detective.

"But," Holmes said severely, blocking Rutherby's way with his arm, "If you upset this house, I will not hesitate in calling the police."

Rutherby locked eyes with him, and realized that this man wanted him put away more than anything. He put on a cool face, however, smiling in a sort of sneer. "Alright, Mister 'Olmes. Moore, Cunningham, let's go."

He pushed past Holmes, followed by the other two.

Watson looked at Holmes. "Holmes, you can't really allow them to—"

"What's the matter, got something to hide, have we?" Cunningham asked in a cold, thin kind of voice.

Watson fixed him with a horribly stern stare. "No, we haven't. This is a outright breach of our privacy."

Rutherby and his men made their way up the stairs and searched Holmes' rooms first. Rutherby positioned Moore at the bottom of the second flight of stairs in case someone tried to go up or come down.

Holmes watched in acute disgust as Rutherby and Cunningham ransacked his rooms. They looked under every table, bed, chair, behind every dresser and in the closet. They even knocked on the walls for hollow spots and looked out the windows, but there was only a thin ledge and the drop was much too high.

Watson's room was next on the third floor, and with every nook and cranny that was searched, the doctor grew more and more anxious.

Finally, all five of them ascended the stairs to the floor that held Miss Andrews' room and the bath room. "Moore, check that other room," Rutherby ordered as Cunningham went for the door to Christine's room.

"It's locked!" the weasely man cried.

"Wot?" Rutherby said.

Holmes exchanged a momentary glance with Watson.

"It's not locked, you idiot! It's…just…_stuck!_" With the last word, they both tumbled into the room.

There was no one in sight, and no luggage to be seen.

"Check under th' bed," Rutherby said, inspecting the room.

"No one," Cunningham said, getting up off the floor. "There's no one here, Rutherby."

Rutherby cast a dirty look at his partner, then shifted it to Holmes and Watson at the door. "If no one's 'ere, then why was th' fire lit, eh?" He demanded suddenly, pointing a finger at the smoldering coals.

"The landlady lit it last night to get rid of the pigeons," Watson answered.

"Pigeons?" Cunningham echoed, straightening up.

"Yes, pigeons. They were nesting in the chimney; the landlady is putting this room to let soon and she can't have pigeons in the chimney now can she?" Watson said, dryly and very matter-of-factly.

Had he turned his head at that moment, he would have seen a smile flicker across Holmes' face. _Watson can lie beautifully when he wants to._

"Pigeons." Rutherby repeated. "Alright, then why is there water in—" He stopped in mid-sentence as he peered into the water pitcher. He stuck his hand into it. "Dry," he mumbled. He then touched the towel next to the basin, but that was dry too. He gnawed his lower lip for a moment, then turned to the bed. "Cunningham! Is that pillow warm?"

Cunningham placed his hand on it. "No."

"Nothing in the other room," Moore said in a heavy voice, entering the room.

"Damn," Rutherby muttered. He gazed over the entire room until his sight fell on the window. It was open. "Ha!" He ran to it and stuck his head out, but after a moment, he drew it in again with a snarl. "There's no way down!"

He stood, hunched and fuming at the window for some moments before he turned, straightening his coat. He fixed Holmes and Watson with a reluctantly-shameful look. "Sorry to 'ave wasted your time, gentl'men," he said gruffly.

"If you'll kindly let yourselves out," Holmes said coldly, gesturing widely to the door.

"He's not going to be happy about this," Cunningham whispered as they made their way out the door.

"Shut your gob," Rutherby hissed.

Holmes and Watson made sure they went directly out of the house and watched them out the front door as they disappeared down the street. As soon as the door was securely shut, Holmes whirled on his heel and dashed up the stairs.

"Holmes!" Watson called after him. "Where are you going? Where _is _she?"

The detective ran the two flights of stairs and down the hallway to Miss Andrew's room.

"We were just here, Holmes! She can't be…" The doctor paused, panting slightly. "…up here."

Holmes went to the window and, opening it as far as it would go, stuck his head out. "Miss Andrews?" he called softly. "It's safe to come down."

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes," the woman's voice came. "Could you take this please?"

"My word!" Watson laughed as Miss Andrew's knapsack came into view, being lowered by a fireplace poker.

"That's where that poker had gone. I thought so," Holmes said, smiling and taking hold of the knapsack. He dropped it on the floor beside him. He then leaned out the window with both hands firm on the sill. "Do you need assistance climbing down, Miss Andrews?"

"No, I think I've got it," came her reply. After a moment, one of her strange shoes came into their sight, followed by the other, searching for the window's edge.

Holmes and Watson stood by, ready to catch her if need be, but she braced her feet solidly in either side of the window frame and with the aid of the poker hooked to the frame, managed to get inside the room again.

"Whew," she said, hopping down from the sill. "Getting up there was easier than getting down, I think. This sure cam in handy," she said, giving the poker to Dr. Watson.

He laughed again as he took it. "Incredible, Miss Andrews. Olympic gymnast indeed."

She smiled back at him, flushed with the exercise and for a moment her beauty struck him. He valiantly fought back a blush at the thought as she said, "Thank you, doctor. It was my only choice, really. From the noise they were making, they were searching extensively – they would have found me fore sure if I had hidden inside."

"Well done, Miss Andrews," Holmes said. "Drying the pitcher, making the bed and turning the pillow to its other side were very clever ideas."

She paused for a moment at the detective's remark, knowing full well that praise, especially in the area of cleverness, did not come easy from him. After a few seconds, she said, "Thank you, Mr. Holmes. I tried to leave as little trace as possible." She gestured to the fireplace. "I wasn't sure what to do about the fire – pouring water over it would have been too suspicious, so I just left it as was."

"Not too worry, Miss Andrews. Dr. Watson came up with a very reasonable excuse for the fire, so all is well."

She sighed in relief and sat on the edge of the bed, hauling her knapsack beside her. "I'm glad that's all over. What a way to wake—"

The door burst open.

Christine flung herself to the floor, dragging her knapsack with her, and the gentlemen rushed to block her from view.

"Is she all right?" Christine heard the concerned voice of Mrs. Hudson and poked her head above the bed.

"Good grief," she said. "You scared me, Mrs. Hudson."

"There you are, dear! Are you all right? Heavens above, where did you hide?"

"Miss Andrews is very agile lady, Mrs. Hudson. She hid on the roof," Watson told her.

Instead of the horrified look Christine expected, Mrs. Hudson let out a hearty laugh and helped her to her feet. "My dear Miss Andrews," she chuckled. "How remarkable. I just hope you'll not be as much trouble as Mr. Holmes," she added good-naturedly.

"I'll try, Mrs. Hudson," Christine returned, grinning.

After luncheon, Christine was told by Mrs. Hudson that her clothes had arrived.

Leaving Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes behind, Christine was bustled up to her room.

"Mrs. Hudson," Christine said as the woman began to open the brown paper packages, "I'm afraid I can't accept these."

"What? Why ever not?" the landlady asked, turning.

"I don't have – well not yet, I don't have the means to –"

"Oh," she replied, turning back to the packages. "Don't you fret about that at the moment; Mr. Holmes informed me that he would pay for your clothes with the understanding that you would pay him back when you were able."

"He _did?"_ Christine asked in a hushed tone, beginning to undress.

Now she felt really awful, her stomach sinking into her knees. Not only was Mr. Holmes waving her case fee for now, but he was also paying for her lodgings and her clothing. _Don't worry sir, I WILL find a way to pay you back if it's the last thing I do,_ she thought, crossing her arms.

As she did so, and as a chilled breeze blew in the room from the slightly open window, she became brutally aware that she was just standing there in her under things. She shivered, standing with one foot on top of the other.

"Here you are dear, isn't this lovely."

Christine's eyes widened, and she momentarily forgot her coldness.

Mrs. Hudson was holding up a pale-gold coloured top and skirt with very large pouf shoulders and a line of lace at the neck. Together they made a flowing, high-necked dress, delicately decorated with lace and bits of white and gold ribbon. It was really a simple kind of dress, but Christine thought it was beautiful.

The landlady held it out to her, and she took it, admiring the seam work and patterns.

"They had it in your size, all ready made. They only had to make some adjustments to the hem…" Mrs. Hudson said, but Christine was only half-listening. "…a common size…it was nice that they…lovely colour…and here is your corset."

Christine's head snapped up. "Corset?"

Mrs. Hudson laughed. "Yes, dear! The way you say it makes it sound as though you've never worn one!" she chuckled again.

"Haha…" Christine laughed nervously as Mrs. Hudson took the dress and laid it on the bed.

She swallowed as Mrs. Hudson handed her the corset. "Here, let me help you, dear. Lift up your arms now." The rigid corset was placed around her middle, half on her bosom.

"Now if you'll do up the busk, I'll help you with the laces."

_Busk? What the heck is a busk? Oh, maybe…maybe these hooks on the sides?_ She tentatively hooked the corresponding places together, from top to bottom.

"There," Mrs. Hudson said. "Now make sure it's comfortable before I lace you up."

She wiggled it around until she found a place that felt the most comfortable, fighting the strong urge to laugh as she thought of Elizabeth from _Pirates of the Caribbean. _Then her smile fell away. _What if I faint? That'd be SO embarrassing…._

Suddenly she gasped as Mrs. Hudson pulled the laces.

"Too tight?"

"No, it's fine," she managed. She could feel the different sets of laces tightening as Mrs. Hudson went through them, each one pulling her stomach further in and forcing her to stand straighter. _Good thing I have a flat tummy and pretty good posture already, or this would be _really_ irritating…._

Mrs. Hudson tapped her shoulder. "There you are, Miss Andrews. All set. Now here's your bodice…isn't this clever, they've new kinds with the bodice and petticoat attached together." She gave Christine the garments, and she slipped the bodice and petticoat over her head and arms until it fit snugly over her corset. After this, Mrs. Hudson handed her a pair of stockings, which she sat on the bed to pull on, still trying to get used to the feel of the corset.

The landlady then gave her a stiffer petticoat, which she realized gave the dress its shape. _Good grief, it feels like I'm wearing a literal ton of fabric! I'm so glad it's March, or I'd be dying right now._

"And the dress."

_Finally!_

She put the skirt part on first, which fell right to her ankles. _What, no skin? Are legs not allowed or something?_ With a twinge, she realized that they probably weren't. _Alright, something to remember: legs are a no-no. Possibly even obscene. Geez, I'm glad I don't live here permanently._

_And I hope I don't have to._

After the skirt was on, she put on the high-necked, long-sleeved bodice of the dress, marveling at how big the shoulders were. They were incredibly poufy and extended down to the elbow and a little above the shoulder.

To her relief, she was finally done dressing. Mrs. Hudson helped her brush and comb her hair, and pulled her hair into a delicate, pretty bun at the back of her head. When Mrs. Hudson's back was turned, she pulled a few curls of hair over her forehead. She didn't like her hair to be _too_ perfect.

Mrs. Hudson finished laying out the other dresses she had bought, and gathered up the remains of the brown paper parcels. Christine turned to pick up a piece of string that had fallen to the floor – with some difficulty, the corset obstructed her movement a little – and straightened up to see the landlady smiling at her.

"It's nice to have another lady in the house," Mrs. Hudson admitted. She lowered her voice. "I do love Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson like family, you understand, but it is nice to have some female company."

Christine's heart swelled a little. She was very glad that the landlady was there to help her with everything. Without her, she'd have no clue. "Thank you Mrs. Hudson. I'm glad to have your company, too."

The landlady gave her a cheerful, rosy-cheeked smile and left the room.

_Alright, Christine. Put your shoes…your high-heeled boots, rather…and get down there and thank Mr. Holmes!_

She laced up her boots, smoothed out her skirt, looked in the mirror Mrs. Hudson had left on her desk, and made her way down the two flights of stairs. _I really gotta get used to this corset…how did women _do_ this?_

_WHY did women do this?_ She thought with an irritated edge. _Suck it up, Christine._ She set her jaw and let out a sigh as she finally reached the end of the stairs.

She knocked on the door. She heard a shuffle inside, and the door opened to reveal Dr. Watson, pipe in hand.

"Miss Andrews!" he said. He opened his mouth to say something more, but shut it again when nothing came out. He gestured for her to come in.

"Thank you."

"I…I hope you don't consider this forward, but may I say that you look lovely, Miss Andrews."

A slight blush crept into her cheeks. "Thank you, doctor." She looked around the room, but she didn't see the detective. She was in the motion of craning her head to see into his bedroom when she realized that must be terribly rude. "Where is Mr. Holmes?"

"He's gone out," the doctor answered, returning to his chair.

"Oh. Do you know where to?"

"Yes. I believe he's gone to see Langdale Pike."

"Langdale Pike," she repeated softly.

"Holmes considers him the resource for all rumors and matters of gossip. He's gone to see if he's heard anything about Mr. Lanaghan or the men that were here today."

"I see."

"Would you care to sit? May I get you something?"

"Oh, no." Christine answered, seating herself.

"Are you sure? Something to read?" He gestured to the bookshelf to the right of the fireplace. "I'm sure Holmes wouldn't mind."

Christine smiled and got up. _Why not._ She scanned the books. Many of them were on botany and chemistry; one seemed to be filled with newspaper clippings. A small leather bound book caught her eye. In large print, it read, "Monograph" – on closer inspection, she found that it said "A Monograph on Footprints and Fingerprints".

"Is this one of Mr. Holmes'?" she asked, pulling it off the shelf.

"Hmm?" Watson lowered his pipe. "Oh, yes. They're…they're a bit difficult to get through, sometimes."

"That's alright. I'll give it a try anyway."

After reading for about an hour and a half, Christine excused herself and went back up to her room. She sat at her desk, got a pen and notebook from her knapsack and wrote:

"_March 4, __1895_

_If I am to remain here for the time being, I suppose it's good to keep a journal._

_Mr. Holmes is out at present. He's gone to see Langdale Pike, a man whom he consulted in The Three Gables. I hope that Pike has heard __something__. Jason could be anywhere in London – but at least I know that he __has__ made connections, I don't have to keep worrying about them turning up unexpectedly. Three men came here today to look for me, but I hid on the roof – I'm so glad that I've done gymnastics for so long. They didn't find me, and I think I heard one man apologize for bothering Mr. Holmes…I don't think they'll return to Baker Street._

_I'm still in awe of this place – to be in the rooms of 221B is somewhat of a dream come true. It just saddens me that something like this had to happen under these circumstances. It also saddens me that I will never be able to tell anyone about this when I return. If I return."_

She scratched this last phrase out. Of course she would return. Of course Mr. Holmes would succeed. He never failed.

_Except that one time with Irene Adler,_ she thought, and smiled. She then turned to her knapsack and pulled out _The Complete Cases of Sherlock Holmes._

_A Scandal in Bohemia,_ she read. _To Sherlock Holmes she is always the woman. I have seldom…_

She read through _A Scandal in Bohemia, the Red-Headed League _and skipped forward to _The Final Problem. _In the middle of _The Empty House,_ faint music distracted her.

She cocked her ear, trying to figure out what it was and where it was coming from. All of a sudden, she realized that it was a violin – Mr. Holmes must have returned!

She slammed her book shut, stuffed it in her knapsack and leapt off the bed. She clattered down the first flight of stairs, but at the second checked herself. _Calm down, Christine. For heaven's sake._

She walked the rest of the way calmly, but quickly.

When she reached the consulting room, she found the door open. A beautiful string of music was flowing out of the room, and as she stood in the doorway, she saw Mr. Holmes facing Baker Street, his right arm moving in fluid, easy motions.

Dr. Watson sat in his easy chair, trying to read a book. He was about to open his mouth to ask Holmes if he'd mind stopping when his gaze fell on the doorway.

Miss Andrews stood there, leaning against the door frame. He could tell that she was entirely immersed in the music – her eyes were distant and her face held a thoughtful and almost dreamy look.

He settled back in his chair and sat watching her.

But with a horrible off-tone scrape, Holmes suddenly discarded the Stradivarius.

Watson glanced at his friend, then back at Miss Andrews, who looked as if she'd been rudely awakened.

"Ah, Miss Andrews," Watson said, "Please come in. I believe dinner will be ready shortly.

"Thank you."

Holmes dropped his violin and bow on his desk, causing Christine to wince, then promptly fell into his chair by the fire.

"Um…Mr. Holmes?" Christine asked tentatively, sitting on the sofa.

The detective's eyes turned her way.

"I just wanted to thank you for the clothes. They're beautiful, it's really too much. I didn't expect –"

"It's no matter, Miss Andrews." As his eyes moved back to the fireplace, they fell on the space of sofa next to her.

"Beg pardon, Miss Andrews." She moved as he pulled something from under the cushion.

It was his monograph! She'd forgotten to put it back!

"Decided to give it another try, eh, Watson?"

"No, Holmes. Miss Andrews was reading it."

"Oh?" He turned to her in surprise, eyebrows raised. "How did you find it?"

"Very interesting, actually. I had no idea you could tell so much from footprints. It's remarkable."

He waved his hand in dismissal, turning to light a cigarette. "Simplicity."

"For you," Christine replied. "You're so gifted."

For a moment, his eyes lit up in pleasure and a smile ran across his features. He said nothing in response.

"Dr. Watson said you went to see Langdale Pike?" Christine asked after a moment.

His expression instantly soured and the cigarette dangled in his hand.

"Not good?" she asked timidly.

"Virtually fruitless," he said in disgust. "What a waste of an afternoon."

"Virtually, Holmes?" Watson asked. "Then there _is _something."

"A name, nothing more. John McBee is all he could give me. He was involved in some sort of scandal involving Lord Burton's young sister, then fled to London. He is now involved with a gang."

"What leads you to believe he's involved?" Christine asked.

"He's been seen with a man with reddish-blond hair and cold eyes. It's curious, his eyes are described by others exactly how _you _described them."

"It's the only word that fits them, Mr. Holmes."

"I'm afraid it's a little late to start today, but I shall start fresh in the morning."


	6. Danny Adams

**Chapter Six: Danny Adams**

Christine was alone with Dr. Watson at breakfast.

Mr. Holmes had gone out, but as they were finishing their meal, he returned.

"Morning Holmes," greeted Watson, used to his friend's comings and goings. "Breakfast?"

Holmes shook his head, but snatched a cup of tea off of the table and raised it to his lips.

"Wait, that's–" Christine began.

He all but spat it out, holding the cup at arm's length.

"Cold."

He strode to the door and flung it open. "Mrs. Hudson! A fresh cup!" He left the door ajar and set to pacing the full length of the room, going back and forth between the window and his bedroom door. His eyes were alight, his hands thrust deep in his pockets, his movements fluid, but agitated.

"Is everything all right, Mr. Holmes?" Christine asked, turning in her seat.

The detective's head swiveled her way, and he absent-mindedly took his hand from his pocket to chew a fingernail. She saw from his eyes that he hadn't really seen or heard her. Then his eyes cleared and he stopped in his pacing. "I beg your pardon, Miss Andrews?"

"Is everything all right?" she repeated.

He nodded and resumed his tread.

Christine hesitantly turned back to the table and glanced at Dr. Watson.

He leaned toward her. "Not to worry, Miss Andrews. He's only waiting on something."

"Really? What?"

The doctor's moustache curled upward. "_That,_ I don't know."

Mrs. Hudson brought up a new cup for Mr. Holmes, along with a fresh pot of tea. No sooner had she left and closed the door than they heard a commotion out in the street.

Holmes paused in the pouring of his tea and sprang to the window. A momentary grin lit up his features. "Ha!"

"What? What is it?"

The detective set his cup on the table as he turned from the window and stood expectantly before the door.

There was a clamor downstairs, an indiscernible shout of dismay from Mrs. Hudson, and loud footsteps in the hallway.

A rowdy knock came on the door, and Holmes swung it open.

A teenaged boy, dirty-faced but bright eyed, stood there. A lopsided grin stole across his face. "Sir! Gibson said you wanted – oh, beg pardon, mum." He whipped off his cap and smiled at Christine.

"Come in." Holmes waved the boy inside. "Wiggins, this is Miss Andrews. Miss Andrews, Sam Wiggins."

"Hello, Sam. Nice to meet you." She extended her hand.

The boy rubbed his own hand hastily on his pant leg before taking hers. "Hullo, Miss Andrews."

"Wiggins," Holmes said sternly, causing him to look up in surprise. "No one – and I mean _absolutely no one_ – is to know of Miss Andrew's location. If she is found to be here, she could be in very serious danger. Is that clear?"

"Yes sir," he answered gravely.

"Now, to business. There is a man I need you to find. He goes by the name of John McBee. He was last seen in Bethnal Green and may be using an alias. See what you can discover about him. I want to know who he works with, where he lives – anything you can find."

"Are the rest of your boys outside?"

"Yes, sir!"

"I want to speak to them myself. Come along, Wiggins."

Wiggins replaced his hat. "G'day, doctor. G'day Miss Andrews." He added with a tip of his hat.

"Good-bye."

"She sure is pretty," he whispered to Holmes as they went out the door.

"That's enough, Wiggins."

The boys returned two days later. Around tea time, Wiggins and two other boys burst into the consulting room, followed by a flustered and very red Mrs. Hudson.

"Sir! We've got news for you, Mister Holmes!" the youngest of the three shouted, skidding to a halt inside the room.

At Mr. Holmes' apologetic smile, the landlady huffed and left the room.

"We found—ow!" The second oldest cast a dirty look at Wiggins, who had just elbowed him in the ribs.

Wiggins nodded at the table where Christine sat. She sat alone, for Dr. Watson had gone to see a patient. The leader of the irregulars removed his hat, and the other two did the same.

"Sorry, mum."

"Sorry."

Christine fought back a smile.

Holmes resisted the urge to roll his eyes and said, "Well? What do you have for me, Wiggins?"

"He _is_ using an alias. He's going by Robert Caine."

"Robert Caine!" Holmes exclaimed.

"Do you know him, Mr. Holmes?" Christine asked.

"If he's the same Robert Caine that I knew in the theatre. He may have been using _McBee _as his alias to cover his true identity. What does he look like?"

"Gibson and Holt were the ones doin' the spyin'." He pushed the younger two in front of him.

Holmes gestured to the couch and all three of them sat down. "Does he have brown, mousy hair and a scar on the bridge of his nose?"

"And one above his eyebrow, sir!" the youngest, Gibson, said.

"Ha! He is the same. And where exactly did you see him?"

"In Bethnal Green sir, jus' like you said. We got 'is address." Holt said. Wiggins pulled a piece of paper form his coat pocket and handed it to the detective.

"Excellent. Now tell me, did you seen the man with reddish hair and" — He glanced at Christine — "cold eyes?"

"No sir, we didn't see 'im. But we did see Cunningham and Rutherby talking to McBee, er, Caine. They were sayin' somethin' 'bout somebody named Christine Andrews."

Gibson turned around in his seat and peered over the sofa at her. "Are _you_ Christine Andrews?"

Christine nodded. "What were they saying?"

"We weren't close enough to 'ear exactly wot they said," Holt replied. "They said somethin' 'bout a machine. And they did mention Lanaghan's name, Mister 'Olmes."

The detective had been sitting in his chair, fingertips together, but at the mention of his name he got to his feet again.

"Well done, boys. Keep your eyes and ears open for anything else." He handed them each a shilling and gave a guinea to Wiggins.

"We will, Mister Holmes. Come on, lads." Wiggins said, and all three boys hopped off the sofa.

After Holmes saw them out and closed the door, he turned his attention upon other matters. He paced – as he often had in the last few days – silently for some minutes, lit his pipe, and paced some more. As usual, he was deep in thought.

Finally, Christine could stand the quiet no longer and asked, "You know Robert Caine from the theatre?"

"Yes," he answered shortly. "And this presents a problem. We acted together for a few years in the same troupe…if I was to go to his residence, he would surely know me. Even if I were to call on him in a _disguise _he may recognize me. He would know Watson on sight, also. We ran into him once on the street and I was forced to introduce them…. I had no idea that he'd turned to crime since then. Pity. But then he was always a sly fellow…." He trailed off, puffing his pipe.

"What if…what if _I_ went, then?"

He tore the pipe from his mouth, aghast. "You? In That part of London? Surely not, Miss Andrews."

"But –"

He shook his head. "Out of the question." He turned his back to her, facing the fire.

"What if _I_ was to go in disguise?"

Holmes whirled, nearly dropping his pipe in the process. The voice that had just spoken had not been Miss Andrews. That voice had been slightly husky, thickly Irish-accented.

But Miss Andrews was the only one in the room, a smile beginning to form on her features. "What do you think, Mr. Holmes?"

The Irish voice came again – that rather deep, mannish voice was coming from the petite young woman in front of him.

A grin spread over his face, but he quickly suppressed it. "No."

"Why not?" she demanded, standing. Her voice had returned to the timbre to which he was accustomed.

"You're a lady!" Holmes cried, throwing his hands in the air. "It's just not done. Miss Andrews, it's too dangerous."

"What other options do we have, Mr. Holmes? If you or Dr. Watson call and he recognizes you – which is a good possibility, you said – everything's blown!" She walked over to him, holding out her hands plainly. "Look, Mr. Holmes. I know you don't trust women, and I know that you don't particularly like having me here."

He looked at her sharply. "I never said—"

"I know you didn't. But let's be honest. I wouldn't like someone moving into my house unexpectedly either. But please, Mr. Holmes. Give me a chance."

He tore his eyes away from hers, which were intense and pleading. He sighed again and rubbed his forehead tiredly. "…you've acted?" he asked abruptly after a couple of minutes

"Yes. I was lead in a lot of plays – I even played a woman masquerading as a man in one of them." She fell silent as he stood at the fireplace, hands folded behind his back.

"All right, Miss Andrews."

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes—"

"On two conditions."

"Okay—"

"First," he said severely, coming close. "You must follow my _exact _instructions."

"To the letter, sir."

"And second…."

Dr. Watson set his medical bag on the floor and took off his coat and hat. He was cold and tired…the only thing he wanted was a nice cup of tea and to sit by the fire. After hanging his things on the hat rack, he opened the door and walked into the consulting room.

There, he found Holmes deep in conversation with a man he did not know.

"Oh! Sorry, Holmes," he apologized, stepping softly backwards out of the room.

"No, no!" Holmes called and he stopped in his tracks. "Come in, Watson."

The man on the couch turned, tipping his cap. Underneath he had a bunch of curly red hair that matched his moustache. His eyes looked…almost familiar under the red eyebrows. "Ye must be Dr. Watson," he said in a thick Irish accent.

"I am," the doctor replied, coming forward and extending his hand.

"Daniel Adams," the man replied, thrusting out a smallish gloved hand and shaking his heartily. "Though many call me Danny."

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Adams. What brings you to Baker Street?"

"Just some business with Mr. Holmes. He was telling me what I do for a living. Never seen the like."

"What do you think Watson? What do you deduce about our friend here?" Holmes asked, standing and gesturing to the client.

Watson pulled out a commonplace book and pencil and studied the gentleman. "From his attire, he seems fairly well-to-do, but a working man…who has recently been down on his luck?" he added this last part tentatively, for he did not wish to offend the Irishman.

"Aye, and how did ye know that, now?" Adams asked, leaning forward with keen interest.

"Your clothes are clean, but not new. And your sleeves are starting to wear thin at the elbow. Your gloves are the thick type worn by a man who usually works outdoors…in the lumberyard or the docks, perhaps?"

"Excellent, Watson!" Holmes cried, clapping him on the shoulder. "Do you deduce anything else?"

Watson glanced from Holmes to Adams. Besides the man being obviously Irish and those characteristics which he had before mentioned, he could see nothing more.

"Anything at all, Watson?"

The doctor shook his head. "No, Holmes." He looked at his friend quizzically, for there was a hardly-suppressed look of amusement on the detective's face. He glanced at Mr. Adams, who had a similar smile forming. "What's going on, Holmes? If this is some sort of joke, I fail to--" He was interrupted by the sweet, merry laughter of Miss Andrews, but he hadn't seen her anywhere. Suddenly he realized where it was coming from and leapt out of his chair. "Good Lord!"

This reaction produced a roar of hearty laughter from Holmes.

Watson could not help but laugh himself. "My word," he said in disbelief, combing his fingers through his hair. "Miss Andrews?"

"Hello doctor." She stood and bowed. "Did I fool you?"

He laughed, sitting again. "I should say so! I had no idea."

Holmes laughter died to random chuckles as he too sat.

"Well, Mr. Holmes?" Christine asked, looking at him expectantly.

"Well what?" Watson asked, looking from one to the other, now quite serious.

"Did I meet your standards? May I go?"

"Standards for what? What is she talking about, Holmes? Go where?"

"In disguise to meet John McBee." Holmes answered.

"John McBee! When did you find out where--" His eyes widened. "Holmes, you can't let her! Miss Andrews, you mustn't." He turned to her.

"Dr. Watson," she said firmly. "This was my idea. This is my case, after all, and I don't just want to be sitting around doing nothing. I want to help. I'm quite determined," she added as the doctor opened his mouth to protest.

"Your performance was satisfactory, Miss Andrews. I said you may go if you fooled Watson, and you have done so." The detective said coolly.

"Thank you—"

"But I repeat, Miss Andrews. You must listen and heed my every instruction, no matter how trivial they may seem."

"Yes, sir."

"Now, if you will change back into your own clothes, I will help you with your make up."

As soon as she left the room, Watson turned to Holmes in an troubled, hushed voice. "You can't let her, Holmes. What ever persuaded you to let her do such a thing?"

"_She_ did, Watson. As you saw, she is a talented actress."

"That's _not_ a good reason, Holmes."

"John McBee is Robert Caine, Watson."

"Robert Caine? Your friend Caine? The actor?"

"I would not go so far as to say he was my friend. Merely an associate. And he's turned to crime, it seems. But he knows me, and therein lies the problem."

"You _and_ your disguises."

"Precisely. And he knows you on sight."

"You introduced us that time on the way to the theatre. I remember…. But Miss Andrews, Holmes? It's far too dangerous."

"She won't be alone, Watson. There is a poultry shop across the street; we shall wait there."

_March 7 1895_

_Mr. Holmes has consented to allow me to call on Robert Caine tomorrow, in disguise as an Irishman, Daniel Adams._

_I don't deny that I'm nervous. But I have to think about it as another performance. It'll be just fine. I've fixed up the pants for the disguise, they were a bit long on me. Speaking of which, Mr. Holmes picked out the costume. He said he hadn't used them for awhile, and from the way they look, it makes me wonder if the wig and eyebrows were the same he used when masquerading as the cabbie in _A Scandal in Bohemia_._

_I'm very glad he's given me this chance…I didn't think I'd be able to convince him, but I guess I did. _

_I hope we find Jason and the time machine soon, but in the meantime, I'm enjoying my stay at Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson is very kind, she's always ready to help me with my dresses (which are beautiful, I hope I can take them back home with me)._

She paused in her writing, thinking of home. She wondered how everyone was, how they were doing. She thought of Walter, and Tom and Gina.

Then with a shock, remembered that Tom and Gina were dead. Jason and his men had killed them….

Her hand holding the pen trembled, then hardened into a fist. Her eyes narrowed and her mouth drew into a tight line. _I'll get you, Jason. Just you wait. We're going to catch you. And when I hand you over to the police, you'll regret you ever laid eyes on me._

_Just you wait._

* * *

_A/N This is where Christine gets a little more Mary-Sueish than normal, but I hope you'll forgive me._

_On John McBee/Robert Caine: It was harder to find a suitable alias than I originally thought. I looked up common surnames, and I think that's where I found McBee. As for "Caine," this is my homage to one of my favourite actors, Michael Caine. You know, I think HE played Holmes at one point..._

_On Bethnal Green: Not living in London myself, not even in Europe, it's hard for me to figure out what would be good places to situate villains. I looked up maps of Victorian London, and one map came up with markings as to where poorer parts of London were at the time. One of them was near Bethnal Green. So I flew to wikipedia and looked up Bethnal Green there, and lo and behold, it was a spot where Jack the Ripper hit. That sealed the deal for me. I found a dialogue from a story (presumably about Jack the Ripper) that told of Bethnal Green Road's numerous alleys and side streets, and how the character felt unnerved by them. That's exactly what I wanted._

_The next chapter holds more excitement and surprises. I hope you enjoyed this chapter…I can't wait to write the next one!_


	7. The Running Man

Chapter Seven: The Running Man

**Chapter Seven: The Running Man**

Christine didn't each much at breakfast the next morning. Mr. Holmes only sipped at his tea, causing Mrs. Hudson to whisk his plate away in agitation.

On the verge of finishing his egg, Watson put down his spoon and fixed his gaze on Miss Andrews. "Are you certain that you want to do this?"

"Yes," she replied without hesitation, looking him square in the eye, "I want to do whatever I can to help. We need to find Jason." With his name, she stabbed her ham, causing Holmes to glance at her.

_She's irritated,_ he thought. _Angry, rather. And very determined. With this attitude, she'll not disappoint._ The clock chimed eleven, breaking him from his observations. He pushed back from the table, rubbing his hands together momentarily. "Shall we get you ready, Miss Andrews?"

She finished off her ham and nodded.

Holmes went into his room and retrieved her disguise. "Here you are, Miss Andrews. When you return, bring your own shoes. Mine are much too big. I am surprised you didn't notice yesterday, Watson."

"She _was_ sitting, Holmes."

Christine took the things and left the room.

"I still don't like this, Holmes."

"I know, Watson. I'd much rather it be me, but we can't take such a risk. If we lose him, we could possibly lose everything. We shall be standing by, remember, should something go wrong."

"Yes, I remember."

"Have faith in the girl, Watson." As soon as the words left his lips, he snapped his mouth shut. He knew Watson was eyeing him in surprise at the statement, and turned towards the fireplace to recover his cigarette case. _Have faith in the girl…_ His own words reverberated in his head. To place faith in a woman was sometimes a rarity for him. The whole of the sex could be so silly, so emotional, so unpredictable and so cruel, it seemed there was little to trust.

But Miss Andrews had not given him a reason _not_ to trust her. So far, she had been very calm and quite rational about everything, if a little unpredictable…her climbing on the roof had indeed taken him aback.

And she had, in fact, very willingly placed all of her trust in _him_.

Feeling the Watson's eyes still on him, he lit a cigarette and promptly fell into his chair as if nothing had occurred.

_Nothing _did _occur,_ he thought to himself. _I was merely stating that I do have some faith in Miss Andrews. I believe that she will be able to get the information we need. Otherwise I would not have given her my consent._

Content with this logic, he folded his hands across his breast, leaned his head back and let the cigarette smoke encircle him.

- - -

"Mr. Holmes? Dr. Watson, did he fall asleep?"

The soft feminine voice drifted down to him through thick layers of sleep, and he sat up.

"Oh, I thought you were asleep, sir."

He rubbed his eyes and smiled for a moment. "I was." He hadn't gotten very much sleep last night, as was often the case when he was working like this. He turned to face her. Or him, rather. She was standing there in her red-haired, be-hatted guise, surveying him. Her natural voice seemed quite out of place coming from underneath that moustache.

"Sorry to wake you," she said.

He made a flitting gesture with his hand.

"Here are my shoes."

"Ah, excellent. I believe I have some brown shoe polish that will cover the white parts sufficiently." He took her shoes from her and flew to his room, where he remained for several minutes. When he emerged, Christine's shoes were completely brown. "This will have to do," the detective said. "I doubt anyone will be looking at your feet, especially as your trousers are somewhat long."

She nodded, and taking care not to get polish on herself, put on the shoes.

"Oh, Miss Andrews." Dr. Watson said.

She looked up at him from her laces. "Hmm?"

"Your locket." He held out his hand.

"Oh." She reached around her neck and undid the clasp. She placed it in his palm. "Thank you."

"I shall put it in my drawer, Watson," Holmes said with a note of annoyance in his voice, and took the necklace from him. After placing the locket within, he rubbed his hands together. "Now let us run over the plan again, Miss Andrews. It is –" He turned on his heel to look at the mantle clock – "A quarter to twelve. We shall reach Bethnal Green around noon, at which time you shall call upon Caine. According to my Irregulars, he will be at home. The landlady will answer the door, and you…" He nodded at her to continue.

"I will ask for Robert Caine. If she asks why, I will say that I've recently been down on my luck and that I heard Robert Caine might be able to help me find a job. Then I wait for him and when he comes, I tell him what I told the landlady. If he doesn't give me any information, I will just repeat that I am in serious need of a job and that the kind of work he's been doing is right up my alley."

"Good. And should you find yourself in any kind of danger?"

"I hightail it out of there."

"And what is the signal, should you need us?"

"I fix my hat," she replied, smiling.

Holmes nodded. "Well done, Miss Andrews. Ah, I hear the four-wheeler. Good man, Watson. Shall we be on our way?"

- - -

Holmes went out the front door first and opened the door. Looking around swiftly, he made a small gesture with his walking stick, at which point Christine sprinted into the cab. They were still cautious about the flat being watched, so once the area seemed secure, the doctor and the detective quickly followed.

"Thank you for distracting Mrs. Hudson, doctor," Christine said once the cab was on its path to Bethnal Green. "I really don't know how she'd react to my disguise. What if she goes looking for me while we're gone?"

"I've told her that we'd be taking you out," Holmes answered. "She expects you to be absent the entire day."

"Oh good. I just didn't want her worrying. I hate when people worry…." She turned her gaze out of the window.

"You're certain you are all clear on our plan, Miss Andrews?" Holmes asked. "Miss Andrews?" he repeated, for it did not seem as though she had heard him.

Her eyes were glued to something in the street, following it as they passed.

"What are you looking at?"

"I'm watching how men walk," she answered, tearing her stare from the window.

Watson grinned at Holmes, who returned this with an amused face. But his face turned instantly serious. "Miss Andrews."

"Yes, Mr. Holmes?"

"You are absolutely certain that you will be able to go through with this?"

"Yes, Mr. Holmes," she answered firmly. "I won't let you down."

- - -

Another ten minutes, and they reached their destination. The cab dropped her off some two blocks away, then circled the block and let Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes out a block ahead of her.

She waited until she saw them heading for the poulterer's shop before she made her way to 323 Bethnal Green Road. She'd been in Bethnal Green a few times before when business took her that way, and it didn't look as if it had changed much. Some buildings had remained until her time, and many buildings she saw didn't exist any more, but it was still the same network of side streets, alleys and dead-ends that she remembered.

It was a poorer part of town, she saw as she looked around. The buildings were old, somewhat shabby, and all of the alley ways were dark, foreboding sorts of places.

Holmes and Watson watched her subtly from across the street.

"She's marvelous, Holmes," Watson said quietly to his companion.

Holmes smiled softly and nodded in agreement. Her words came back to him, _I'm watching how men walk._ If he hadn't known it was a woman he was watching, he might have been fooled himself.

Arms swinging at sides, taking large, but not unnatural, firm footsteps, "Mr. Adams" made his way toward Caine's residence.

Christine was glad that her disguise was so thorough. The hat and the wig were very secure with numerous pins and some adhesive applied to her forehead. The moustache was very secure as well; Mr. Holmes certainly knew how to pull off a disguise.

She tipped her hat to a pair of women as they passed by her, and they nodded, smiling.

Before she knew it, she had reached Caine's door. She took a deep breath. _Okay, Christine. This is it. You can DO this. It's going to be fine, it's just another production. Mr. Holmes and Doctor Watson are counting on you. You can do this. Here we go!_

She rapped smartly on the door.

A thin, elderly looking dark-haired woman answered the door. "Hello, may I help you?"

"Good afternoon, mum," she said in her Irish accent, tipping her hat. "Would Robert Caine be in?"

"He is. May I ask who is calling?"

"Danny Adams, mum. He doesn't know me, but I was hoping he could help me find a job. Been hard on me luck, ye see and his work seems about right."

The landlady looked Christine over, then said, "Just a moment, I'll fetch him."

"Thank ye kindly, mum." She tipped her hat again. "I'll just wait here."

After the landlady closed the door, Christine stood with her gloved hands folded neatly behind her back, rocking slightly on her toes. After a few minutes, she began to sing an old Irish tune under her breath, one that her grandfather had often sung.

"…all around the blooming heather, will ye go, lassie go…and we'll all go togeth—" She stopped abruptly as the window curtain flashed for a moment to her right, then closed again hastily.

She straightened up and waited for the door to open, but it did not.

She frowned. _Something fishy's going on here._ A short yell caused her to glance from the door to the window. It had sounded like a woman and had come from inside the house. After a second of hesitation, she knocked on the door. "Mum?" she called loudly, laying the accent on thick. She looked around the vicinity once, catching sight of Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes in the poulterer's, then moved before the window. Through a crack in the curtains, she could see the landlady sprawled on the floor, a nasty bump forming on her forehead. "Hey!" she cried. She dove for the doorknob, but a loud clatter in the alleyway caused her to leave it.

Holmes and Watson were watching her every move. As she ran from the doorway to the side of the house, Holmes' mouth tightened. What had she seen?

"Holmes!" Watson suddenly hissed, and pointed.

A man was on the roof. Holmes instantly recognized the long-legged, broad-shouldered form to be Robert Caine. As the man made his way across the roof towards the next one, another figure climbed into view. Even from across the street in the poulterer's door, Holmes could hear the Irish voice yell, "Stop!" and his lips tightened even further.

Caine turned at Christine's yell and his eyes widened. And then, with a spurt of energy and a leap, he was on the next roof and running for all he was worth.

"Hey!" she yelled again and followed him. As she clattered across the shingles and jumped the narrow space between Caine's house and the next, she had only one thought: _Mr. Holmes is going to kill me._

She watched Caine jump off the roof and heard a sharp clatter of metal. _Fire escape,_ she realized. As she made ready to jump onto it herself, she saw Caine below her and watched him in amazement.

As he leapt off the high-placed fire escape, he fell and rolled into a ball. But he didn't even pause for a second before he found his feet again and was up and running once more. A stack of crates loomed before him, but using his hands as leverage, he leapt neatly over them and continued on his path.

_Blimey, he's free running! Or something very like!_ She thought in astonishment. Then she set her jaw determinedly as she clambered down the fire escape. _Well two can play at that game, Mr. Caine._ She leapt off the fire escape just as he had done seconds before, fell, rolled, and ran. As she vaulted over the crates, she caught sight of him just turning the alley corner.

As soon as they saw Miss Andrews pursuing Caine across the roof, Holmes and Watson ran to the other side of the street to try and intercept them. But by the time they got across, the two were already at the second house and jumping down the fire escape.

They watched in fascination as Caine and Miss Andrews followed the same path, running at top speed and never slowing, though obstacles lay in their path.

"Come Watson!" Holmes yelled. He ran to the next alley way, which he knew connected with the side street that Miss Andrews and Caine were headed for.

Christine careened around the corner, hard on the heels of Robert Caine. "Stop!" she shouted, although she knew he wouldn't.

But he did glance back at her, scowling for a moment, before swerving onto the next street. A two-wheeler came suddenly before him, but he used the seat as a launch pad and hurdled past the horse.

"Excuse me, sir!" Christine yelled at the startled cabby looking down upon them. She raised her hat as she passed him, still running.

As she left the cab behind, she made sure to keep Caine in her sights. They veered around the corner, and Christine spied the street sign. _Cheshire Street,_ she read_._ Then as she turned, she thought, _Oh no._

Before them lay a bustling market, full of people, animals, stalls and produce. A bad place to make a chase, but a great place to lose someone.

She caught a grin on Caine's face as he charged right into the crowd. _Oh no you don't! You're not getting away so easy! _Instead of going into the mass of people, she darted to the left to run behind the stalls. The path was narrow, for the booths were set up right along the pavement, but she had just enough room. She easily caught up with Caine now, and was running neck and neck with him, though he wasn't aware of the fact.

He looked behind him once, and a puzzled but pleased expression washed over his face. This grin remained as he began to slow down, but then his head turned her way. His eyes opened wide as he caught sight of her, and then narrowed as he grit his teeth, looked ahead and put on a new burst of speed. She did the same, swerving past an elderly grocer and jumping over a basket of apples.

Now ahead, Caine had just broken the crowd. She was going to lose him if she didn't get out of here now. "Look out!" she cried to a woman standing at a booth, and raced past her. Placing her hands on the edges of the wooden platform that made up the stall, she thrust her legs through the opening between the stall awning and the heads of lettuce the woman was selling. She landed solidly on the ground but didn't hesitate and kept running, in spite of the woman's indignant cries.

Holmes and Watson had been tailing the two since Bethnal Green Road. They took every short cut Holmes knew to keep up with them. Even so, they were trailing behind.

"Look!" the detective cried when they reached Brick Lane. Caine had just turned onto it from Cheshire Street.

"But where is Miss—er, Mr. Adams?" Watson panted.

"I don't see him yet. Come, Watson!"

The two sped up a little, following Caine as he hurried down an alley way. At the end of the alley, before it reached the adjacent Wilkes Street, was a brick wall bordered on either side by tall buildings. The man climbed up a stack of wooden boxes to reach the top of the wall, then to prevent anyone following him, kicked the pile over. He let out a triumphant, panting laugh and leapt down to the other side, out of sight.

"We've lost him!" Holmes snarled, slowing to a stop in the alley.

"Perhaps we can still cut him off—" Watson began.

"Look out, Mr. Holmes! Doctor!"

The two turned in surprise to see Christine tearing down the alleyway.

"You can't get over that wall!" The doctor yelled as she dashed past him.

"Watch me!" she called back.

She ran not at the wall, but at an angle to the corner where the wall and one of the buildings met. At the last moment before she crashed into it, she leapt into the air, planting one foot on the wall. She sprung off of this foot and placed the other on the building, and pushed off of this foot, proceeding in this way until she had reached the top of the wall.

This was all done so swiftly that Holmes and Watson could not believe their eyes. Holmes watched as she found her footing and bounded from the top of the wall. As she did so, he caught sight of her coat – something was strange to him. The left pocket looked as if it had something in it – something rather heavy, for it swung less readily than the other pocket and hit against her thigh.

As he was wondering at this, he heard her make contact with the ground on the other side, and her voice. "I'll get him, sir!" After that was only the pattering sound of hasty footsteps.

His own words drifted back to him. _Have faith in the girl…._ He turned and began to jog quickly back out of the alley way, to head for the main street again. He patted Watson's shoulder briefly, for he knew all of this running must be hard on his friend's old war wound.

"Coming, Holmes!" the doctor said in response and started up his jog again.

Meanwhile, Christine had gotten Caine back into view. He had turned from Wilkes Street and back onto Brick Lane. He was beginning to slow down, for he thought he had lost her again. But he caught sight of her at Wentworth, yelled and picked up his pace once more.

They came upon a flight of stairs, and he jumped down them three at a time, swinging his body at the last three off of the railing to put him farther down the road.

Taking a fast running leap, Christine dove down the stairs to land with a somersault at the bottom of them. She resumed her footing and maintained her speed, which was slowing. But Caine was getting tired as well; he wasn't moving as fast as he had been and was now running rather doggedly.

But still he ran on, from Wentworth to Middlesex, where Christine took a shortcut down a parallel street to try and head him off. She was very close to him now; only feet separated them as they ran down the length of Mansell Street and turned down numerous alley ways. Before she knew it, they were running along the River Thames, dodging cabs and passers-by. They leapt over fences, snaked through small side streets and once even ran through the back door and out the front door of a barber's shop. He did everything to try and shake her, but he wasn't able to.

At last they reached the Southwark Bridge, which Christine noticed was curiously made of iron and granite, unlike the modern arch bridge she was used to. It was this bridge that Caine turned down, upsetting a hansom cab as he nearly collided with it. He put on a final burst of speed that left Christine more than a few feet behind. He was about thirty feet across when he swerved toward the railing and looked over it. He gave her one glance, climbed atop the railing, and _jumped._

She let out a dismayed yell and watched as he plummeted. But to her utter amazement, he never hit water. A barge had come under the bridge just as he looked over, and Caine had known that he could make it. And make it he did. He dropped onto the broad deck and rolled. He stumbled to his feet after a few moments, and waved at her defiantly.

But what Caine did not expect was to see his pursuer mimic his every move. He looked at the gap between the end of the barge and the bridge. There was still enough room to make it! _He wouldn't…He would! He's going to jump it!_ Caine's mind screamed_._ And just as this thought went through his brain, he heard a yell and a saw the figure come catapulting toward the barge's deck.

Christine felt the shock go through her entire body as she hit the hard wooden surface. But she'd made it in one piece – no broken bones. If she hadn't been a gymnast and if she and her cousin hadn't often run through the streets of London and New York, she would never have made that jump.

Still, she groaned as she staggered to find her footing. As she looked to see where Caine was, she nearly cursed. He was on the edge of the barge, preparing to jump onto the wharf lining the Thames.

_Doesn't this guy ever stop?_ She thought angrily. This was getting ridiculous. She breathed heavily and ran past a dazed crewman who had seen them both jump from the bridge.

The gap from the barge onto the wharf was small, for the barge was just pulling in to load up, and Caine made the jump easily. Christine could see that his footsteps were hard against the pavement now; he was more than determined to leave her in the dust.

She pursued him until she heard sharp whistles from behind. She chanced a look over her shoulder and saw two policemen running towards her, blowing brass whistles. _Oh great. They must have seen us on the bridge._ But she couldn't stop now, even for the police. She'd lose Caine!

She veered down a side street where Caine had gone. He was slowing drastically now, despite his determination to lose her. She was gaining on him quickly. _I have to get him now or it's all over!_ With one final burst of energy, she dove for his legs. They both collided heavily with the ground.

Caine yelled as he tried to shake her off, but she held tight. Despite her grip however, he did manage to get one foot free, and that was all he needed.

She saw the long leg and the hard sole of the shoe coming for her face, but had no time to react. _Bloody hell,_ was her last thought before the terrific blow. Bright stars burst before her eyes, dancing madly before they were enveloped in total darkness.

_A/N_ _Oh man! Suspense!_

_This was another fun chapter to write. Free running has always been a fascination with me. For those who don't know, free running is basically getting from point A to point B as fast and as fluidly as you possibly can, no matter what lies in your way. You do this by using flips, somersaults, jumps and whatever other means necessary to keep your pace going._

_I looked at maps of London and discerned a path for Christine and Caine to take in their chase…I'm glad there's so many little alley ways and things._

_Also, about the Southwark Bridge…It seems it was made out of iron slabs and granite piers before it was reconstructed into an arch bridge in the 1920s. Because of this fanfiction, I know more about London than I ever did before! And when I finally get the chance to visit one day, I'll be able to say, hey! That's where Robert Caine jumped off the bridge! :P_

_Chapter 8 coming soon! What lies in store for our heroes next?_


	8. Rewards

**Chapter Eight: Rewards**

When Christine awoke, Caine was at the end of the alley and the policemen's whistles were loud behind her. She'd only blacked out for a few moments. She rubbed her left eye, where stars were still popping, but ran heatedly towards Caine.

She reached into her left coat pocket and pulled out the pair of brass knuckles. She'd put them there when she was changing as a spur-of-the-moment thought. No harm in being prepared. She slid them over her right hand. "Hey!" she screamed at him.

He turned in surprise, and she reared her fist back. His eyes widened, but he had no way and no time to do anything more than that. The brass knuckles collided solidly with his jaw, and he reeled. Christine planted a firm punch in his stomach, and he doubled over. She prepared to land another blow, but it wasn't needed.

Robert Caine lay before her in the alleyway, unconscious. She stood over him, breathing heavily, then stumbled backwards to lean against the wall, slipping the brass knuckles into her pocket. If Caine hadn't been so tired himself, she doubted he would have gone down so easily. The policemen's whistles were still sounding, and a young officer rounded the corner. "Stop! You're under –" he stopped short as he saw her leaning there, and Caine on the ground.

"You're under arrest," he said stoutly, pointing at her, brandishing a truncheon. His companion, a constable, rounded the corner, took one look at her, and one look at the man at the ground. He then opened his mouth to reinstate what his fellow officer had just said, but did a double-take at Caine. "Heavens above," he whispered, eyes widening.

"What? What is it?" the young officer said, still keeping his eye on Christine who was now too exhausted to protest.

"Higgins, do you realize who this is?" the constable asked in a hushed tone.

"Who is it, MacPherson?"

"This is Peter Wildes! The scars and description all match! Good Lord, you've caught him!" MacPherson turned a shocked face to Christine.

She only looked tiredly back at him, unsure of what to say.

"By George!" MacPherson laughed and grabbed hold of her hand. He shook it up and down heartily. "Well done, man! Well done!"

"Er, thank you," she replied, startled.

"You're sure it's him?" Higgins asked doubtfully, lowering his truncheon.

"Take a look yourself!"

Higgins bent over Caine. "Blimey, it _is_ Wildes!"

"Quick, run and fetch help!" MacPherson ordered. "We're taking him back to the station."

"Yes sir!" Higgins said, and obediently ran off.

_Oh no,_ Christine thought. _I've lost Caine anyway. Unless…unless I can go with them._ She tried to think up a likely excuse to come along, but she was too tired and was developing a headache that promised to become very nasty later on.

"Ooh, got you, did he?" MacPherson asked.

"Eh?"

He pointed at her face.

She reached up and tenderly touched the area around her left eye. She winced as her hand recoiled from the bruised skin.

"Why don't you come with us to the station, Mr….?"

"Adams. Daniel Adams."

"Come back with us, Mr. Adams, and we can have you cleaned up. No, I insist," he said firmly as Christine opened her mouth in mock-protest.

"Thank you, sir." She tipped her hat slightly. _I'm amazed that I didn't lose this hat during the chase. Not to mention the wig! Thank goodness for hair grips._

"I hear the paddywagon," he said. "Come on, Mr. Adams, help me carry him out."

After running who-knew-how-far, carrying an unconscious man was the last thing Christine wanted to do, but she obliged. After handcuffing him, MacPherson took Caine under the arms and she took his feet, and together they carried him out of the alley onto the main street where a police wagon was waiting. "Well done, Higgins, that was quick."

"Yes sir. They were already on their way, you see. You! Get back!" Higgins said loudly, for a sizeable crowd was forming. The young officer and one of his comrades were waving their hands and shouting, "There's nothing to see here. Go about your business."

"Oi! There's one of the men that jumped off the Southwark!" someone hollered, pointing at Christine.

"Get back, there!" Higgins yelled.

"Don't pay them any mind, Mr. Adams. You _had _to jump off that bridge to catch Wildes, didn't you. What a sight." MacPherson grunted as they heaved Caine's body into the wagon.

Three other officers besides Higgins sat in the back with Caine. MacPherson told Christine to sit in the front with him.

Just as she was about to climb into the seat, she spied a familiar face in the crowd. "Hey! Hey you! Lad!"

The young boy, whom she recognized to be one of Mr. Holmes' Irregulars, turned at the shout. "Me?" he asked, pointing a grubby finger to himself.

"Aye. Come here." The boy approached her, and she knelt down to his height. "You wouldn't happen to know Mr. Sherlock Holmes, would you?"

His little face brightened. "Yes, sir!"

"Well I want you to do me a favor. My name is Mr. Adams. I want you to find Mr. Holmes – he's around here somewhere – and tell him that I've got Caine and that I've gone to Scotland Yard. Can you do that?"

He nodded.

She made him repeat the message, then sent him on his way. "Thank you!" she called after him. She watched as his fleeing figure was joined by other boys, then turned to step in to the seat. She cleared her throat. _This Irish accent is starting to wear at my vocal cords…I hope I don't have to do this too much longer._

"You know Mr. Holmes?" MacPherson asked as she sat next to him. "I couldn't help but overhear."

"Yes sir," she answered. "Do you?"

"Met him once or twice. Sharp fellow, that man. Curious way of working, but he gets results."

- - -

"We got him!" young Higgins exclaimed as he leapt from the back of the paddywagon. Other policemen were coming in and out of the building, and he clapped the shoulders of one heartily. "We got him!" he repeated gleefully to his fellows' puzzled faces.

"Stop that screeching, Higgins, and fetch Inspector Lestrade!" MacPherson barked.

"Yes, sir! Right away sir!" Higgins sped past another constable and into the building.

Christine peered up at the structure. She knew the building, but it was no longer the main police station in 2007.

Higgins came bounding out, followed by a well-dressed, ferrety-looking man with wide dark eyes and a bowler hat. "MacPherson! Higgins says you've caught Wildes!"

"Not me, sir. It was this man here, Mr. Adams."

"Mr. Adams, eh?" a grin spread over the inspector's face. "Good man, Mr. Adams. We've been after Wildes for two years. Caused a lot of trouble for one man."

"Is that right?" Christine asked as they dragged the still-unconscious form of Caine from the police wagon.

"You mean you haven't heard?" Lestrade asked in surprise.

"No sir. I live out of London, you see."

"Ah."

They were quiet for a moment, then Higgins came up to Lestrade. "Cell number 3 sir?"

"Yes, that'll do, Higgins."

"Well done, Mr. Adams," Higgins said admiringly, shaking Christine's hand.

She fought a blush coming on. Several more policemen came up to shake her hand; all of them were positively glowing. She'd apparently made their day.

She smiled, then winced. The area around her eye really was sore.

Lestrade seemed to pick up on this and gestured to the door. "Come this way, Mr. Adams, and we'll see about that eye."

"Thank you, Inspector."

- - -

"Mr. Adams knows Mr. Holmes," MacPherson said as he came out of a hall door bearing a bowl of water, a damp cloth and a looking glass.

Lestrade and Christine sat on a bench in the hallway.

"Does he now?" Lestrade said, turning an eye on her. "And what do you think of Mr. Holmes?"

Christine nearly grinned at the way the inspector said the detective's name, drawing out the O. "He's a brilliant man," she replied. "A wee bit strange, maybe, but brilliant."

Lestrade nodded as MacPherson handed her the looking glass. "Yes, he's been known to help us on one or two occasions…."

Christine took the cloth and bowl from MacPherson, then lifted up the mirror. She dreaded what she was about to see, and grit her teeth slightly in her anxiety. Her mouth dropped open very slightly as her reflection bounced back at her.

The area around her left eye was a lovely shade of reddish purple.

_Wonderful._ She dipped the cloth into the cold water that filled the basin, and held the compress to her eye. _What I wouldn't give for a bag of ice right about now._

"So how are you acquainted with Mr. Holmes?" Lestrade asked, raising his eyebrows.

"Er, I met him when he solved a case for my late aunt. Hadn't seen him in a long time before yesterday. He told me about a man named Caine, who I chased down. It turned out that he was the same as your man Wildes."

"And what does Mr. Holmes want with Wildes?"

"I can't say any more, Inspector. I'd best be waiting until Mr. Holmes arrives. I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all."

"Inspector, Wildes is waking up." An officer said, coming towards them.

"Is he? Excuse me, Mr. Adams." Lestrade said, standing.

"Sir."

- - -

Holmes and Watson had lost Caine and Miss Andrews long ago. They continued to briskly walk the streets, ears and eyes straining for any sign of either one of them.

"They've disappeared, Holmes," Watson said, weary from the running.

The detective sighed angrily. They'd never find them now. They could be anywhere in London. "Come, Watson," he said resignedly, "Let's go back to Caine's residence. Perhaps we can find a clue as to where he's headed."

"Did you hear that, Holmes?"

"Hear what, Watson?"

"There, again! Listen!"

Holmes cocked his head. Then a faint cry caught his ear, growing louder.

"Mr. Holmes!" it was shouting.

He recognized the voice. "Wiggins?" he called.

The familiar form came running into view, tripped on the curb and landed hard in the street. Holmes stooped and taking hold of the boy's elbow, helped him to his feet.

"Thanks, Mr. Holmes," Wiggins panted, dusting off his trousers. "We've been looking for you everywhere. Over here, lads!" he yelled down the street from whence he had come, gesturing widely with his arm. He was soon joined by three other boys.

"Looking for him? Why?" Watson asked, coming up to them.

"A man by the name of Mr. Adams told Gibson here to find you and tell you that –"

"That he's got Caine and that he's at Scotland Yard!" Gibson cut in, ignoring the dirty look from Wiggins.

Holmes' eyes lit up as he heard this, and he turned to Watson.

"Holmes!" Watson said, a grin spreading over his face.

"Good work, boys!" Holmes plunged his hand into his pocket and pulled out some coins, which he dropped into Gibson's hands. "To Scotland Yard, Watson!" he cried, waving his walking stick. "Cab!"

They jumped into the first four-wheeler they found. "Scotland Yard!" Holmes said, tapping his stick on the roof of the carriage.

"I can hardly believe she's caught him!" Watson said quietly to his companion. "But the way she was chasing him, I guess it's no wonder!"

Holmes nodded. His entire being was urging the cab to hurry faster, faster. In his agitation, he tapped his foot incessantly on the floor. Miss Andrews was alone in that entire building of policemen. He didn't know how long she could keep up her charade.

When they arrived at Scotland Yard some minutes later, he barely waited for the cab to stop before getting out.

A familiar looking constable came out to greet him. "Hello, Mr. Holmes. Mr. Adams has been expecting you. This way." They followed him into the building.

"Where's Mr. Adams?" he asked another officer at the front desk.

"What's that, MacPherson?" he replied, looking up from a bunch of papers.

"Mr. Adams. Where is he?"

"Inspector Bradstreet's office. Inspector Lestrade and Mr. Adams are both in there."

"This way, gentlemen." He turned right down a long hallway. "It's been a great day for us, Mr. Holmes," MacPherson said proudly. "We still can't believe Mr. Adams _caught Wildes._"

"Wildes?" Watson asked. "You don't mean Peter Wildes." He exchanged a look with Holmes.

"The same, sir."

Holmes brow furrowed. Peter Wildes had committed a large number of small robberies, had been partially involved in a kidnapping and it was even thought that he had murdered a man near the docks. He'd no idea that it was his old stage-mate.

"Turns out he was going under the name of Robert Caine," MacPherson continued. "Part of the reason we couldn't find him. The other reason is that no one could catch him," he laughed. "Until Mr. Adams came along, that is. Jumping off the Southwark Bridge. I've never seen such a thing."

"Jumping off the Southwark Bridge!" Watson exclaimed, this development nearly causing him to stumble.

"Oh yes." MacPherson nodded seriously. "Wildes jumped off the Southwark Bridge onto a barge, and Adams followed him. Dove right down. I'm still trying to figure out how they made the distance without breaking their legs! Higgins – a new officer – and I saw them and ran them down. By the time we reached them however, Adams had already laid Wildes out flat."

Watson's eyes were growing wider with each word. He glanced at Holmes, whose lips were drawing in tight.

"Of course, Adams got some right nasty bruises. That Wildes is a tough one. Wait here, I'll let them know you've arrived." MacPherson disappeared inside the door they had come to, leaving the doctor and the detective alone in the hall.

"Holmes," Watson whispered urgently, concern apparent in his eyes. "Bruises? He's hurt her!"

Holmes did not respond. His jaw was clenched tightly, his eyes dark and narrowed.

"Come in, gentlemen," MacPherson said. He waved them inside, then left.

"Mr. Holmes! Dr. Watson!" the familiar Irish-disguised voice cut through the doorway as they stepped in.

It took all Watson had not to rush to Miss Andrews. A large dark bruise encircled her left eye, and there was slight darkish bruising on her right hand knuckles.

"Mr. Adams." Dr. Watson went forward and grasped her hand. He squeezed it reassuringly, and she smiled up through her fake moustache at him.

She then turned to Holmes and extended her hand. He took it rather stiffly. "Well done, Mr. Adams," he said, his voice rigid.

"Thank you sir," she returned quietly, sensing his uneasiness.

"Lestrade, Bradstreet."

"Hello, Mr. Holmes." Lestrade smiled at him, hands behind his back.

"Mr. Holmes," Bradstreet nodded his head at the detective from his place at his desk.

"Where is Wildes?" the detective asked.

"In his cell," Lestrade answered.

"May I speak to him?"

"We'd like to have the first crack at him if it's all the same to you," Bradstreet replied. "But you can certainly call tomorrow."

"Thank you. I will call tomorrow morning. And Lestrade, do not let anyone else see him. They may be associates of his."

Lestrade nodded firmly. "No one will get past our doors, Mr. Holmes."

The detective turned to Watson. "Shall we be on our way, Watson? Mr. Adams?"

Christine rose from her seat, somewhat painfully. "Pleasure to meet you, Inspector Lestrade. Inspector Bradstreet." Christine said, shaking each of their hands in turn.

Holmes turned sharply out of the room, flanked by Watson and Christine. She followed at a bit of a distance, feeling like a child that was being led to time-out. She thought Mr. Holmes would be proud of her for bringing down Wildes, and couldn't understand why he was so upset with her.

As soon as they turned the corner, Holmes made sure the hall was empty and took her by the arm, pulling her towards him. "Are you mad?" he whispered furiously.

"Holmes!" Watson said, shocked at his friend's behavior.

"You could have been seriously injured, not to mention killed," Holmes continued, ignoring the doctor's outburst.

Just then, an officer came out of a side door and headed their way.

Holmes hurriedly released her arm.

"I may be daft, Mr. Holmes," she replied quietly, still keeping on the accent, "But I'm not blind. I know what I was getting myself into. I know what my limits—"

"Job well done, Mr. Adams!" the officer said brightly, pausing to shake her hand.

"Er, thank you," she answered, and the officer continued on his way. "I know what my limits are," she repeated to Mr. Holmes when the officer was out of sight.

Watson looked from Miss Andrews to Holmes. Holmes had been positively fuming just moments before, but now seemed to be calming down. He did not reply to Miss Andrews but turned on his heel and made for the entrance.

Dr. Watson and Christine followed. The cab was still waiting for them when they reached the outside.

As Christine was climbing in, she heard a voice calling behind her, "Mr. Adams! Wait, Mr. Adams!"

She turned. "Inspector Lestrade?"

He ground to a halt before her and thrust a sheaf of papers at her.

"What's this?" she asked, peering down at them.

"The reward, Mr. Adams."

"Reward?" she replied, bewildered.

"Don't tell me you didn't know about the five hundred pounds!"

"Five hundred pounds!" she nearly shouted.

"Ha, congratulations, Mr. Adams. And thank you. Good evening, Mr. Holmes. Dr. Watson." He smiled at all three of them and turning, made his way back into the building.

She looked at Dr. Watson wonderingly. "Five hundred pounds…!" she whispered, and he nodded.

"Come, Mr. Adams," Holmes said sharply, and she stepped up into the cab.

After the door was closed and the cab on its way, Holmes and Watson simultaneously drew the window shades.

Watson grasped her hands. "Miss Andrews, are you alright? Let me look…." He gently took hold of her chin and turned her face his way.

She laughed. "Yes, I'm fine, Dr. Watson. It's only bruises."

He snorted. "Bruises or not, I still insist treating them when we get back to Baker Street."

She smiled at him. "All right." Then her smile fell away as she said, "Um…Mr. Holmes?" This caused the detective to look her way.

"I'm sorry I didn't exactly follow the plan, but I couldn't let Caine get away. I'm sorry I made you angry."

"Angry?" he echoed. His face took on an expression of surprise. "My dear Miss Andrews, did you think I was upset with _you?"_

"You're not?"

He shook his head. "No. I was only concerned for your well-being. When MacPherson told us that you'd been hurt by Caine…."

_He was afraid that Caine had hurt me seriously…_. Before she realized it, Christine had laid a hand over his. She quickly withdrew it however, saying, "Thank you for worrying, Mr. Holmes. But I _am_ all right, honestly. And I gave him what-for," she added resolutely.

At this, Holmes' face cracked to release a loud, barking laugh. He quickly covered his face with his hand, his whole body shaking with mirth.

Watson couldn't help himself, and soon began to chuckle. The chuckles led to all-out laughter, and soon Christine started to giggle too. They laughed until until their sides ached.

"I really couldn't believe my eyes when you scaled that wall," Watson laughed quietly. "

"And let's not forget the Southwark!" Holmes said, the last word dissolving into another bout of hooting laughter.

Christine grinned. "That's something I'll never do again. Wow, what a jump. It's hard for me to believe I actually did that."

"How did you chase him? Watson asked. "I've never seen anyone run like that."

"It's called free running or parkour," Christine said. "I could barely believe my eyes when I saw Caine doing it. No wonder they couldn't catch him. Basically, it's the act of getting from point A to point B, as fast as you can, as fluidly as you can, whatever obstacles lay in your path."

"And where on earth did you learn to do it?"

"My cousin taught me. He's Italian-American – from my mother's side – and lives in New York City. He's two years older than I am and learned it from some friends of his. When we'd visit each other, we'd go free running. It was quite fun, actually."

"My word," Watson shook his head. "It's a wonder how things change."

Christine nodded in agreement.

"You did very well, Miss Andrews," Holmes said suddenly, having fully regained his composure. He extended a hand.

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes," she said, shaking it in hers. "I'm only glad I was able to help." She grinned again as she took the pound notes from her coat. "And now I have the money to pay you back."

- - -

The next morning, Christine felt that she could barely move. Her entire body ached and her head emitted a dull pain. She lifted an arm to touch her eye . "Ooh…." She winced. Despite the numerous cold compresses that Dr. Watson had applied to the eye the prior evening, it was still very sore.

The door opened quietly and Mrs. Hudson came walking in. She flung open the curtains to reveal a bright sunny day. "Good morning, Miss Andrews. Breakfast is on the table. How is your eye this morning?"

"Still sore, but it will be better soon, I think." Christine was glad that Mrs. Hudson was taking her "injury" well now.

Last night had been a different story.

Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson had gotten her past Mrs. Hudson just long enough for her to change back into her normal clothes and wash her face free of stage makeup and adhesive. But when Christine came into the consulting room, Mrs. Hudson had been there, setting out things for tea.

Upon seeing Christine's face, Mrs. Hudson had let out a muffled shriek and demanded explanations, standing protectively in front of her.

But Christine explained that she had only tripped on the pavement and fallen right into a lamppost. She showed Mrs. Hudson her knuckles also, and claimed she got the bruises from trying to break her fall. At Holmes and Watsons' reinforced statements, the landlady finally accepted this as truth, cast a concerned eye at Christine, and had continued preparing things for tea.

Presently, after Mrs. Hudson helped her dress and fix her hair, Christine made her way down to breakfast.

Upon reaching the consulting room, Christine found only the doctor. "Good morning, Dr. Watson. Where is Mr. Holmes?"

"Good morning, Miss Andrews. Holmes has gone to Scotland Yard to interrogate Caine. How is your eye?" He rose to inspect the bruise.

"It's all right." She sat and was still while the doctor looked at it.

When he was satisfied, he sat again, pouring her some tea. "I'd like to put some more cold compresses on that after breakfast, if you don't mind."

"I don't mind."

- - -

Holmes was gone for most of the day. Christine spent the time reading the rest of his Monograph on Footprints and Fingerprints, in between cold compresses and salves that the doctor applied to her eye and knuckles.

It was after tea time when Mr. Holmes finally returned. Christine and Watson rose from their chairs as they heard him coming down the hall.

"Well?" the both asked as he entered the room.

"I shall tell all in a moment. But first, here, Miss Andrews, this is for you."

She looked up in surprise at Mr. Holmes, who was holding out a brown paper package tied up with string.

"What is it? How much do I owe you?" she asked. Yesterday evening, she had paid him for all of her clothes and the rent thus far.

"You owe me nothing. Consider it a gift."

She smiled. "You didn't have to do that, Mr. Holmes…what is it?" Taking it from him, she undid the string and unfolded the brown paper.

It was a book, bound in tannish leathery cloth. Turning it over, her mouth dropped open. It was several moments before she regained her composure and looked up at the detective, eyes shining. "The Time Machine," she whispered.

_**

* * *

A/N**__ After I had already begun to write this fan fiction, I looked up H.G. Wells' "The Time Machine," just out of curiosity. When I found that it had been first published in 1895, the year A Study in Time takes place, I knew I had to fit it in somewhere. But more about that in the next chapter…._

_**Lestrade, Bradstreet and MacPherson**__: While the rookie Higgins is an original character, I couldn't resist bringing Lestrade and Bradstreet into this story. I love Colin Jeavons portrayal of the inspector so much that I used him as a reference – I love especially the way he draws out the O in Holmes. Bradstreet was likewise a nice strong character. MacPherson, some of you may remember, was featured in The Second Stain. I remember him distinctly from that episode because of Lestrade's interaction with him. While writing this chapter, I fell into little fits of giggles because I kept recalling the part where Lestrade goes, "By George if he knows, I'll have it out of him!" For some reason it always cracks me up._

_**Movie and song references:**__ "I may be daft, but I'm not blind" is a line from one of my most favourite movies of all time: The Secret of Roan Inish. It's a charming story set in Ireland…if you haven't seen it, I suggest you do. "Brown paper package tied up with string" of course is a line used in the song "My Favourite Things" from The Sound of Music. My mom used to sing that to me before bed when I was a little girl._

_**Brass Knuckles:**__ Let's face it ladies. There's no way that we could render a big man like Caine unconscious unless we had something to aid us. I'm trying to make this fan fiction as realistic as possible, and to do that, I couldn't have Christine just give him one karate-chop to the neck and lay him out flat. Only Chuck Norris could do that. :P_

_**Baker Street Irregulars: **I love these little guys. They're so helpful; I wish they had appeared in the Granada series more often. I guess there were a whole bunch of them in one scene of The Sign of Four, but I haven't seen that film as of yet. The scene where Wiggins trips in the street is based off of a scene (I forget which episode) where a boy falls and Holmes helps him up and sends him on his way.  
_


	9. My Fair Lady

**Chapter Nine: My Fair Lady**

She ran her hand over the cover of the book, where a picture of a winged sphinx was imprinted in red ink. "_The Time Machine_," she repeated quietly. "H.G. Wells. Published by Heinemann…." She paused, putting her fingers to her lips in awe. "First edition, I can't believe it."

"I saw it in a shop window; it's just been released."

"I don't know what to say, Mr. Holmes. This…this is really too kind. Thank you."

He smiled softly, nodded, and strode to the fireplace to retrieve his pipe.

"What did you find out from Caine?" Watson asked after a moment, causing Christine to place the book down in her lap.

"He doesn't know where Lanaghan is," Holmes said shortly, lighting his pipe and throwing the match into the fireplace.

Christine's face fell, her happiness disappearing like a bubble that had just been popped. _So I caught him for nothing._

"But he directed us to someone else who knows where Lanaghan _will_ be."

"What?" she asked, nearly standing.

The detective sat, and Watson sat in the chair opposite, pulling out his commonplace book.

"Caine told us everything. He knew that he couldn't run from the truth any longer, especially when he heard that I was there to see him. You'll be pleased to know that he is sporting some very nasty bruises, Miss Andrews." A smirk passed across his face, but was soon gone. "He told us everything he knew, which was disappointingly little, and gave us an address where we would find a man called Travis Boothby.

With two officers, I went to his residence. We had little trouble bringing him in. He's a weasely, sorry sort of man. There is indeed no honor among thieves," he stated, shaking his head. "He did not waste a moment in telling us all he knew. It seems that Mr. Lanaghan is an intelligent man, Miss Andrews. He knows to keep himself scarce and tells his correspondents as little as possible. He's obviously been involved in crime before, but that is no surprise, considering what you told us.

Boothby said that Lanaghan always had a machine on his person, or at least close at hand. He allowed no one to touch or hold the device, and was…how did he put it, _obsessed_ with finding you."

Christine shuddered, and involuntarily hugged _The Time Machine_ to her chest.

Mr. Holmes didn't seem to notice. "Boothby didn't even know where to find Lanaghan, but informed us that he knew for a fact that he would be attending the Graham Ball. No doubt to see if he could find you, Miss Andrews."

"The Graham Ball?" Watson repeated, looking up from his note taking. "The one that you always receive an invitation to but never attend?"

"I _have_ gone once or twice, Watson, but yes. In fact…." He set his pipe precariously on the mantle and dove for his desk, flipping through the stacks of papers there.

Watson sighed, put down his commonplace book and got up from his chair.

"Where is it?" Holmes muttered.

Christine watched as he took up a pile of papers, articles and books, discarding them onto the floor and anywhere else when he realized they were not what he was looking for. She found it rather fascinating that a man so brilliant could be so disorganized.

Meanwhile, Watson had gone to a shelf on the opposite side of the room. He pulled a few envelopes off of the shelf, looked at the first two and set them down, keeping the third, a cream-coloured one, in his hand.

Now Holmes was mumbling irritably under his breath. "I _know _that envelope is here!"

Had Christine not feared a rebuke from the detective, she would have laughed at his frustration. He tackled his chair-side table, flinging papers into the air when they did not meet his satisfaction.

Christine set down her book and began to catch the papers as they fell._ Poor Mrs. Hudson,_ she thought with a small smile.

"It isn't here!" Holmes cried, flinging his hands into the air. "I don't underst-" He broke off as the doctor held the cream-coloured envelope before his eyes. _"Watson."_ His eyes lit up and he grinned momentarily at his friend, snatching the envelope from his hands. He held it out to them. "Our invitations to the Graham Ball. Lord Lancaster Graham always supplies me with three."

"Holmes usually gave them to me," Dr. Watson said, leaning towards Christine. "I sometimes took Thurston and his wife."

She nodded.

"I have it worked out," Holmes said, his eyes gleaming. "This year, all three of us shall attend the ball."

"All three of us?" Christine said anxiously. "but – but Jason will be there! What if he recognizes me?"

"You shall make him believe that you are _not_ you."

"What? I don't follow."

"Watson shall be your escort, in disguise. Your…your uncle. A doctor. Who lives in London and has recently received his niece from…. Miss Andrews, do you by any chance speak a foreign language?"

"French, and some Italian."

"French! Excellent! Your uncle has recently received you from Paris. And I will be Monsieur Edmond Lemaire…."

"Did you have this all planned out already, or are you developing this as you go along?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Ha!" he exclaimed, and smiled at her slyly, shoving his pipe back into his mouth. After he'd let out a trail of smoke, he said, "A bit of both, Miss Andrews."

- - -

Holmes sent their responses that very evening. The ball was in just five days' time, and Holmes and Watson spent every waking moment with Christine, trying to perfect their plan.

Christine had no idea what going to a ball entailed until the gentlemen informed her. She had to be ordered a new dress, shoes, gloves; had to be taught how to dance, how to talk, walk…not to mention the overwhelming amount of etiquette.

"You must never refuse a man who asks you to dance," Mr. Holmes told her one afternoon while she and Dr. Watson were reviewing the waltz in their consulting room.

The tables had been pushed against the walls, and the sofa moved as close to the fire as it could be without presenting a hazard.

"Never?" Christine asked, wide-eyed, nearly tripping over the doctor in her surprise. "But what if it's Jason?"

"_Especially_ if it's him, you must not refuse. To refuse would be to give yourself away."

Christine frowned, biting her lip. She cast her eyes downward as she continued to dance.

Watson glanced disapprovingly at Holmes. He was frightening her. "Don't worry, Miss Andrews," he said. "We won't let anything happen to you."

"Of course not!" Holmes said, looking at them as though startled. "You don't think I'd put you in danger! You really have nothing to be afraid of, Miss Andrews. It is not as if we are sending you there alone."

Christine nodded, and though she still had some doubts, she put them out of her mind for the time being and concentrated on the dance steps. "No refusing a dance. Got it. What else, Mr. Holmes?"

"Speak as little as possible. Be timid. Be sweet, be dainty."

She looked over at him and grinned. "In case you haven't noticed, Mr. Holmes, I'm not exactly the epitome of daintiness. Or timidity for that matter."

"Exactly," he said. "You must make this role more convincing than that of Mr. Danny Adams. Give Lanaghan every reason to doubt your identity."

She nodded.

"You're doing very well, Miss Andrews. Just remember to hold your dress only _very slightly_ above the ankles." Watson remarked, stopping in his movements. "I do believe you've learned the waltz sufficiently. What do you say, Holmes?"

Holmes nodded his head in a slightly irritated fashion. "That will do, Miss Andrews."

"What's next, Doctor?" Christine asked.

"The quadrille is very popular….it's traditionally done with _four_ couples, but for what we need to learn, two couples would suffice…." He looked expectantly at Holmes, who suddenly seemed very interested in his watch chain.

"Holmes?" he said with a slight edge. "She needs to learn the quadrille. I'm certain it will be danced on Wednesday night."

"Perhaps tomorrow, Watson," Holmes said quickly. "I think we've had enough dancing for today, don't you?"

Watson knew Holmes was just trying to get out of this – if he consented to holding the quadrille until tomorrow, the detective would just make himself conveniently scarce. "Holmes." Watson let go of Miss Andrews' hands and walked over to his friend. "Come on, Holmes," he said quietly. "She needs to learn this dance. If she doesn't know it, she will not only be publicly embarrassed, she'll be exposed. Lanaghan will be able to see through her guise."

This seemed to strike home with the detective, and he sighed heavily. "Very well, Watson. Fetch Mrs. Hudson."

Watson smiled broadly and all but ran out of the room, lest Holmes should change his mind.

"You don't like to dance?" Christine asked.

"Not particularly."

"But surely you'll have to dance at the ball."

"As little as I can manage, Miss Andrews," Holmes said with a slight smile.

Mrs. Hudson's and Dr. Watson's voices sounded in the hallway, and the two came into the room.

"What have you done to this room?" the landlady demanded, looking around with wide eyes, appalled at the disarranged furniture.

"It's only temporary, Mrs. Hudson," Watson assured her. "Come, will you help us teach Miss Andrews the quadrille?"

"Oh, it's been a long time since I danced," Mrs. Hudson said wistfully, the furniture momentarily forgotten. "And how is it that you do not know the quadrille, Miss Andrews?" she asked, turning to her.

"I just need to refresh my memory, Mrs. Hudson. I was in America for too long, I expect."

"Ah. Well then, let's get started. I have things started for tea downstairs. I mustn't be too long. Dr. Watson?"

Dr. Watson smiled and bowed to Mrs. Hudson next to him, who gave a small curtsy.

Holmes took a place next to Christine; he bowed his head to her, if a little uncomfortably; she smiled and curtsied in response. They were facing Mrs. Hudson and Dr. Watson, with Mrs. Hudson diagonally across from Christine.

Christine glanced at Mr. Holmes out of the corner of her eye. _Good grief, he's so tall. How am I going to dance with him?_

But despite his height, he was very fluid and easy in his movements. This surprised her, since he protested against dancing so.

As the doctor directed her, the four of them danced. Sometimes she would be dancing with Dr. Watson for a moment, as Mr. Holmes danced with Mrs. Hudson, then she would be back at the detective's hand. At one point she and Mrs. Hudson joined hands while the men walked around them, and then parted again to go to their respective partners. Dr. Watson also explained that after _they _had done their part, another pair of couples would replicate the steps _they_ had just danced.

It was more complicated than Christine originally anticipated, but she was soon comfortable with the steps, and to Holmes' content, the dance was over.

Mrs. Hudson bustled back downstairs to prepare things for tea, Holmes lit a cigarette, and Watson settled down to read the newspaper. Christine sat on the sofa and read _The Time Machine_, before they continued with preparations for the ball.

- - -

Before it was whole-heartedly expected, the day of the ball arrived. By this time, because of the doctor's many poultices and his constant care, Christine's eye had turned back to its normal colour. Her ball gown arrived that morning, and as they were finishing luncheon Holmes reviewed their plan.

"…at which point, I shall leave you," the detective was saying. "I'll make my way in after you. Remember that you must _not_ introduce yourself should I – or anyone else – come up to you, Miss Andrews. Let Watson introduce you."

She nodded.

"Once inside, you will be directed towards the powder room, where Watson must leave you temporarily. Give them your things, and reunite with Watson as quickly as possible. But do not look flustered or hurried in doing so; there is no need to attract unwanted attention. From there you will be announced to the room – don't concern yourself," he added, noting her wide-eyed look, "Not many guests pay attention, save the host and hostess."

"Whom are very pleasant," Watson added.

"_Lord Graham_ is," Holmes conceded. "His _wife_ on the other hand is prone to gossip and loud speech," he said with a twinge of aggravation. "Silly, prattling—"

"_Holmes."_ Watson said sternly.

Christine stifled a giggle behind her teacup.

"You cannot deny that what I say is true," Holmes said composedly, pushing away a smile beginning to form on his lips. "Don't worry, Watson," he added as the doctor opened his mouth in protest, "I'll behave myself."

"Ha. You'd better." The doctor's eyes crinkled in amusement as he took a sip from his cup.

"You are fluent in French, you said, Miss Andrews?" Holmes said, turning abruptly to her.

"_Oui, monsieur," _she answered without hesitation.

"_Ensuite, vous n'aurez pas de difficulté à converser avec moi?_" Holmes asked, raising an eyebrow.

"_Non, Monsieur Holmes._"

The detective smiled approvingly, but held up a finger. "Monsieur LeMaire, if you please, Miss Andrews."

"Then you may address _me_ as Mademoiselle Hudson, _Monsieur,_" she replied curtly, smiling.

Holmes looked startled at the sudden comeback, but smiled and said, _"Touché."_

"How on earth am I going to understand what you're saying?" Watson asked, slapping down the newspaper on the table. "I know some Latin well enough, but I'm not well versed in my French."

"You shan't understand, then," Holmes said, getting up. He grinned at his colleague. "You'll simply have to trust us."

Watson snorted good-naturedly.

"If Lanaghan is present and I need to speak with you, Miss Andrews, I shall speak in French."

She nodded, but Holmes could tell that by speaking Lanaghan's name, he had touched a nerve. He remained silent for nearly a full minute, and just as he was about to say something, she spoke. "Couldn't… couldn't we just bring the police and take him away, Mr. Holmes?"

He looked at her in surprise. "Miss Andrews, you know we could not."

She nodded, "I know. It would not only cause a scene, but we can't get the police involved in this…. I just…I just don't want to meet him there."

"Don't worry yourself, Miss Andrews. Watson will be near you the entire evening. Now. After you are announced to the room, you will stay with Watson. Unless, of course, you are asked to dance. Remember –"

"Don't refuse a man a dance, especially if it's Lanaghan." Christine sighed.

"Yes. And also remember –" the detective was interrupted again as the door swung open to reveal Mrs. Hudson.

"Miss Andrews, we must start getting you ready."

"A few more moments, Mrs. Hudson," Holmes interjected before Christine could respond. He ignored the cross look from the landlady and continued. "Also remember that you must keep your head up, Miss Andrews. You are a wealthy young woman recently returned from France. Keep your head up, but remember to keep your eyes downcast, in a shy fashion. Walk lightly, _dance_ lightly, speak little, and –"

"I have to get her ready, Mr. Holmes!"

"Just a _moment_, Mrs. Hudson," he said, his eyes lighting up in irritation. He turned back to Christine. "Speak little and let Watson introduce you. Should you feel the need to use the powder room, have Watson escort you to one of the maids, who will attend to you – "

"She's not going to be ready if you don't let her go _now_, Mr. Holmes," Mrs. Hudson cried in frustration.

"Very well!" Holmes exclaimed throwing one hand in the air. "Go on, Miss Andrews!"

After hurriedly leaving the room, Christine followed Mrs. Hudson up the two flights of stairs to the bath room.

As she soaked in the tub, she reflected on the detective's words. There was so much to remember. And so much at stake. She just had to keep it together, stay calm and above everything else, play her role to the letter. Jason mustn't figure out who she was. As she scrubbed her nails, she ran over the steps of the quadrille in her head. _No, it's left, not right…Cor, if I can pull this off tonight, it'll be a miracle. Especially with Jason there. I wish we could bring the police in, but of course we can't. I don't even know why I brought it up to Mr. Holmes. Where would we be if Jason was in jail, anyway? I could never get him out again! And could never get him home…_

…_.although it's awfully tempting to _leave_ him here. _She placed a damp hand over her eyes. All she wanted was to be safe back at home in her own time period. She appreciated all Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson had done – and it was incredible meeting them, but she didn't _belong_ here. Besides everything being virtually foreign, she was intruding on the hospitality of Mr. Holmes. He was very gracious, but she could tell that it wore on his patience with every day that passed.

She sighed, sending soap bubbles scattering. She took a few deep breaths, trying to relieve the anxiety-ridden pressure that was building up inside her. _Calm down, Christine, calm down. It's going to be okay. Mr. Holmes is going to talk to Lanaghan tonight, figure out where he's hiding, and then we're going to catch him and go home. _If only it were as simple as it sounded.

"Let's get you dried and dressed, Miss Andrews," Mrs. Hudson said, making her way inside the door.

Christine cooperated while she dried and put on her slip, and again while they scurried to her bedroom, but her thoughts were elsewhere.

When Mrs. Hudson brought her ball gown out, however, her attention came jolting back to the present. Her jaw dropped. "Wow!"

Mrs. Hudson was holding up easily the most beautiful dress she'd ever seen. It was a rich blue dress of thin satin, decorated with bits of dark blue velvet. The low scooped neck was decorated front and back with delicate white lace and bits of what looked like crystal or pearl. The lace also embellished the shoulders, adorned with a flower pattern. The dress was long and sweeping, perfect for dancing.

"Wow? Whatever does that mean? Is that some American slang you picked up overseas?" Mrs. Hudson asked, throwing her a strange look.

"Uh…um, yes. Slang. I beg your pardon, Mrs. Hudson." She reached out to touch the dress, but Mrs. Hudson held up her corset and petticoat first.

Christine sighed inwardly in disappointment, but obliged as the landlady helped her. When she tried on the dress, she couldn't stop admiring the beadwork and careful consideration the tailor had made.

"Mr. Holmes chose it himself. Straight from Paris, I believe." Mrs. Hudson told her as she helped her do up buttons on the back of the dress.

"That's what he said," Christine replied, still marveling at the beadwork and velvet patterns. "He…he has very good taste. He knew exactly what to look for."

"It's nothing short of exquisite. I didn't think he knew women's tastes so well." Mrs. Hudson chuckled. "I'll go get a brush, and we'll get started on your hair. I'll bring a mirror up as well."

_I didn't think he knew women's tastes so well…_ the landlady's words rolled around in her head. _Neither did I, Mrs. Hudson. But it's exactly what I would have picked out. It's beautiful. I hope it looks all right on me…I hope Mr. Holmes approves._

This last thought caught her entirely by surprise.

_Why did I think _that? _What does it matter if Mr. Holmes likes it? I mean, he _should _like it, he picked it out. And if _I_ like it, it's all that matters._ _Good grief, Christine. Where is your mind going to? _She rolled her eyes at herself, shook her head, and went to her dresser.

On top of it lay a pair of long white gloves, a pair of black satin shoes, and a small box. She opened the box, to find a shining set of pearl earrings inside. _There goes my 500 pounds._ _Mr. Holmes, why did you buy me all of these things?_

_Because you have to act the part,_ she knew his reply would be.

"Here you are, dear. Just sit down there, and we'll arrange your hair." There was a loud thump, and Christine turned to see that Mrs. Hudson had entered and set down a large mirror. Christine brought the chair from her desk and set it in front of the mirror.

She caught herself in the glass, and a smile formed on her lips. The dress looked perfect. She turned her head and twirled around, looking at the dress from every angle. Her smile grew wider. _They don't make dresses like _this_ any more._

"Please sit down, Miss Andrews. It's much easier to brush your hair when you're still."

"Sorry, Mrs. Hudson." Christine reddened slightly and set herself down on the chair.

For the next almost half-hour, Mrs. Hudson brushed, combed, curled and set Christine's hair. When the landlady was done, Christine positively beamed. Her hair was in a very elegant twist, with small tendrils hanging down near her neck. The hair framing her face was delicately curled away from her eyes and ears, and the whole mass of brown curls was dotted with fake forget-me-nots.

"Here is some perfume, dear. Why don't you put that on, and I'll go and see how soon Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson will be ready."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. My hair looks beautiful."

"I haven't lost my touch yet!" The landlady chuckled, and ducked out of the doorway.

Christine applied the rosewater perfume, put on her gloves, slippers, earrings and looked into the mirror once more. _If I didn't know better, I wouldn't recognize myself. _The Victorian fashion was so different than the 21st Century…but in a good way. _I never thought I'd be standing in the rooms at Baker Street about to head to a ball,_ she thought laughingly. But her smile dwindled. _I would never be here if it weren't for Jason._ Her eyes fell to the floor, and she turned from the mirror.

Her gloved hands folded, her finely-curled hair brushing against the nape of her neck, she stood at the window, very quiet.

- - -

"Watch your step, Miss Andrews," Watson heard Mrs. Hudson say, and he looked up. He was standing on the stairwell leading down to the consulting room, fixing his bowtie. The doctor saw a glimpse of a blue dress, and then watched as Miss Andrews came into view, slowly descending the stairs, holding a corner of her dress just above her ankles.

His breath caught for a moment. This woman was so unlike the one he'd met at the Diogenes Club, so unlike the woman who had been running the streets of London less than a week ago – she was delicate, gentle, timid…and beautiful. He presently regretted that he'd be escorting her as an uncle. It was not customary for a father to dance with his daughter, or an uncle with his niece at one of these balls.

Miss Andrews was very much preoccupied with not tripping on the train of her dress, so much so that she did not see him until she had reached the third-to-last stair. "Oh. Good evening, Dr. Watson."

"Good evening, Miss Andrews. You look very handsome."

She blushed as she descended the last few stairs. "Thank you. You look very dashing."

He smiled, then gestured to the stairs leading to the consulting room. "Shall we?"

They let Mrs. Hudson pass before them, and then made their way down the stairwell.

"Holmes? We're coming in." When he received no reply after knocking on the door, Watson pushed it open and followed Miss Andrews inside.

"Holmes?"

"Coming, Watson." The detective emerged from his room, and Christine burst out laughing.

Holmes stood ramrod straight in an elegant black tuxedo, his hair well oiled and slicked back differently than normal, sporting a thin moustache under his thin hawk-like nose. Christine threw her hands over her mouth and hid behind Dr. Watson to disguise her giggles.

"_What_ is so amusing, Miss Andrews?"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes," she laughed. "I just didn't expect to see you with a moustache. You surprised me."

He shook his head slightly and brushed off one of his sleeves. "Ah." Then his head jerked up, and he held out an arm. "Come here and let me see you, Miss Andrews."

Her giggles at once subsided and coming out from behind Dr. Watson, she walked composedly towards the detective.

She saw his eyes light up as soon as she came into his full view, and at once lowered her head, suddenly shy.

"No. Chin up, Mademoiselle Hudson."

She obeyed and stood stock still as Mr. Holmes circled her once. "Excellent," he said. "You look magnificent. Every inch a lady from France."

Christine blushed as she smiled, and Watson could have sworn that her face glowed because of it.

"Watson!"

His friend's voice shook him out of his distraction, and he turned to see Holmes holding out a jar of adhesive and a fake beard that perfectly matched his own grayish-brown hair.

"Come, Dr. Burke," Holmes said, giving the doctor a knowing look, "Let us put your beard on. And then it's off to the ball."

_**Translations: **_

Holmes: Then you will have no difficulty conversing with me?

Christine: No, Mr. Holmes.

_**A/N**_

_Wow, this chapter ended like Cinderella. :P Sorry for the delay, everybody! More soon, hopefully!_

_I hope you enjoyed this chapter…making Holmes dance was amusing to me. And I can't tell you how much I love Watson._

_**Christine's dress: **__I modeled Christine's dress after a gown that I found while searching on google: _. .

It's absolutely beautiful – while doing research, I found that darker colours were considered more suitable for unmarried brunettes in the Victorian era. I had to do quite a bit of research in preparation for this ball, and I want to thank my friends at the forums for helping me along the way.

_**French:**__ All right. I want to apologize up front for any errors in the French language. I don't know ANY French besides hello, yes, sir, madam, miss…your basics. I'm getting all of my translations off of .com, so for any of you native French or French-speakers, I want to extend my humble apologies. Personally, I speak some Spanish, but I figured that French and Latin would be the languages learned by ladies of the time period._

_**Lord Lancaster Graham and his wife:**__ The name "Graham" just popped into my head for no particular reason. But while trying to think of a first name for Mr. Graham, I recalled a character from one of my favourite movies, Field of Dreams. The character, Archibald "Moonlight" Graham, was a real baseball player, but in this movie was portrayed by a favourite actor of mine, Burt Lancaster. So right there and then it was settled that his name would be Lancaster Graham. His wife is, in part, based off of Mrs. Jennings from Jane Austen's "Sense & Sensibility."_


	10. The Graham Ball

**Chapter Ten: The Graham Ball**

Christine leaned back in the carriage as it jostled its way down one of the many streets on the way to the Graham Ball. Mr. Holmes kept repeating the same instructions that he'd told her many times already, so she was only half-listening.

Her thoughts were mostly elsewhere, and more and more as the ride went on. The closer they came to the location of the ball, the worse Christine felt. There were so many butterflies in her stomach that a jumbo-sized net wouldn't be able to catch them all should they escape.

She couldn't keep her thoughts off Jason. She kept seeing his eyes, narrowed and leering at her. She was really frightened of him now…frightened of what may happen should he corner her somewhere.

He was a normally calm and collected man, but his temper could flare up quickly – she'd seen it the day he'd yelled at her in her office, demanding information about the time machine. His eyes had turned into balls of icy fire, his fists pounding on the wood of her desk.

As much as that scared her, however, it was nothing like the chill she felt when she'd first met him. Even then, she knew there was something wrong about him. She remembered looking at him curiously, as he leaned against a wall near an office door, talking to his board member friend. He'd been twirling something idly in his fingers, as one might with a pencil…. It was only when she was introduced that she saw that it was a scalpel.

She'd dismissed it as eccentricity then.

_But now?_ She thought, staring out of the carriage window, _Now I'm sure that it's one of his torture devices. What if he has a scalpel on him tonight? Or some other weapon? What if he hurts me? What if he hurts Mr. Holmes or Dr. Watson?_ The thought made her absolutely sick. She twisted her hands in the folds of her coat, and then, biting her lip, turned to the detective.

He was still going on, now speaking about his own role and Watson's. They'd established where she'd grown up in London, where "Dr. Edward Burke" had lived, who her parents were, etcetera.

"…remember, Watson, you received your niece _three weeks ago_ from France."

"Yes, Holmes."

"And you remember where you live?"

"Yes."

"And –"

""Mr. Holmes," the detective heard Christine say, and he turned to face her.

She'd gone rather pale, and when she raised her eyes to his, they had fear behind them. "I…I don't think I can do this, Mr. Holmes."

Holmes had been so recently intent on his own part to play in this affair that he had somewhat overlooked her. She was afraid – afraid of making an error, afraid of letting him down, but most of all, afraid of Lanaghan.

"Miss Andrews," he said gently, taking her hands. "We are going to succeed, and you will be quite safe. Watson will be accompanying you, and there will be large crowds of people there. Mr. Lanaghan will not be able to touch you."

"But what if he gets me out of the room – or out of the building somehow?"

"I will not allow him to do anything of the sort," he said, and Christine saw a fire light up behind his eyes. "I will not let you out of my sight."

"Promise?" Christine asked, her voice quiet.

"You have my word." His voice sounded so strong, so confident and so reassuring that Christine felt a great relief wash over her. She nodded, and as she did so, the carriage rolled to a stop.

Holmes placed a hand briefly on Watson's shoulder.

"Good luck," the doctor said.

"_Bonne chance,"_ Christine likewise said, and Holmes flashed her a grin.

"_Merci." _With that one word, he jumped out of the other door of the carriage and was gone.

Just as Holmes' door closed, their door opened.

A top-hatted man in an elegant red coat with shining brass buttons stood there, holding out a white-gloved hand to Christine.

_Here we go, Christine._ "Thank you," she said softly, and stepped down.

Watson stepped down, pulling on his own gloves, and gallantly offered his arm to Christine. She took it with a smile, and they made their way up a grand set of steps, past a doorway of tall white Corinthian columns and into the building.

Christine had to consciously keep herself from _staring_ at the women that they passed: elegant dresses of every design and color, flurries of fur coats and muffs, white gloves and the prettiest up-dos she had ever seen filled her vision.

She suddenly felt self-conscious about her own attire, and lowered her eyes, thereby unintentionally lowering her head.

"Chin up, Miss Hudson," Watson whispered.

"They're all so beautiful," she whispered back, lifting her head.

"So are you," Watson returned, and reddened slightly as a result.

She too blushed, very attractively in Watson's eyes, and said softly, "Thank you."

"Here is the ladies' dressing room," he said quietly. "I'll leave you in the maid's care, but I'll be back shortly."

"This way, miss," a female voice said, and Christine turned to see a maid in a starch white apron gesturing to a door.

Christine glanced once at Watson, then at the maid's kind smile, followed her. "Allow me to take your cloak, miss."

"Thank you," Christine said as the maid helped her out of her evening cloak and took it away. Another maid gestured inside the door, and led her inside.

Inside was a room full of bustling ladies, laughing and smiling. Many were fixing their hair with help of maids, peering into looking glasses and fussing with their curls. Christine took a quick look in a mirror as a maid held one up for her, adjusted one curl, and then nodded. "Thank you very much."

"Of course, miss. The dressing room is that way, if you wish to wait for your gentleman friend."

"Thank you." Christine made her way out the door again and loitered in the area. She saw several gentlemen look her way, many women gesture to her dress and nod their heads, and at last saw the familiar – and yet unfamiliar face of Dr. Watson.

"Everything all right?" he asked, offering his arm.

She nodded. "I almost didn't recognize you with that beard." She took his arm, and he led her towards another stair. As they approached this downward-heading stair case, a dull roar met their ears.

"Mr. and Mrs. Williams," a butler, standing at the top of the stairs said loudly. As he called their names out, the couple standing near him made their way down the stairs.

A couple after them whispered to the butler, and he announced, "Lord and Lady Brette."

As Christine and Dr. Watson approached him, Christine saw down past the stairs and into the ball room.

In a word, it was grand.

The tiled floor, strewn with guests, sparkled in the gaslight and the light of a magnificent crystal chandelier hanging overhead. Gowns of every colour, intermittent with the glossy black of tuxedos, caused the room to glow. Skirts swirled to a lively waltz in the middle of the room; as the song came to a close, the dancers and those surrounding the edges of the dance floor clapped politely with gloved hands. Impeccably dressed butlers in their red coats could be seen serving champagne in certain parts of the crowd.

"Dr. Edward Burke and Miss Ellen Hudson," the butler announced loudly, startling her.

Gathering her skirt in one hand, she lifted it the most minimal height above her ankle and, with her arm in Dr. Watson's, composedly descended the staircase.

"Good evening!" they heard a loud female voice say as they reached the bottom of the stair. A plump, cheery woman and dark-haired handsome man dressed in a decorated soldier's uniform were coming towards them.

"Good evening," Watson replied, bowing slightly.

Christine curtsied, lowering her head.

"What a pleasure to have you with us. I do not believe that we have met. I am Lady Graham. This is my brother, Colonel Hinds."

"I'm afraid we haven't had the pleasure, madam. Dr. Edward Burke, at your service. And may I present my niece, Miss Ellen Hudson."

"How do you do, Miss Hudson."

"How do you do, madam."

"Oh, it is my pleasure. My absolute pleasure." Lady Graham smiled so widely that her eyes were nearly lost. "Oh, there is Lady Heaton. Come along, Rufus." With a nod of her head to both of them, she bustled away.

Colonel Hinds bowed to Dr. Watson and then Christine. But before he went on his way, he asked, "Miss Hudson. If I may request the honor of dancing with you at the next set?"

She smiled at him and bowed her head. "It would give me pleasure, Colonel."

He smiled briefly and followed after his sister.

"Would you like some champagne, sir?"

"Yes, thank you." Watson turned to a butler holding out a tray. "Would you care for some, Miss Hudson?"

"Please."

"Here you are."

Christine took the small glass from him, removing her arm from his. She sipped at it delicately, turning as the butler on the stair announced, "Monsieur Edmond Lemaire."

Had she not known it was Mr. Holmes, she would never, ever have guessed at his true identity. She watched as the disguised detective came down the steps, walking in a fluid, arrogant fashion. His head was held high, his eyes half-lidded, eyebrows permanently raised. A slight smirk remained upon his lips as he surveyed the room with a sort of conceited air. His eyes roved over her and Watson, and there was a momentary spark that told her that he had in fact seen them.

As he began to head in the opposite direction, she saw that he was stopped by Lady Graham and her brother. She smiled softly, then turned back to Watson, who was making his way towards the edge of the dance floor.

The dancers were performing what looked like a sort of polka. Whatever it was, it was very lively and all seemed to be enjoying themselves exceedingly.

"Look," Watson said quietly to her, "There is Langdale Pike – Holmes went to see him a day or two after you arrived."

Christine followed his gaze until she saw a tall, reedy sort of man with a thick moustache and sharp, darting eyes.

"Do you see anyone else you know?"

"Not at the moment…but I'll be sure to point them out if I do." He smiled widely at her, and she did the same.

As she looked around, making sure she didn't stare at any one person for too long, the music came to a stop. She realized Colonel Hinds would be coming to dance with her, and began to keep an eye out for him.

Suddenly a flash of red hair to the left caught her attention, and her heart leapt into her throat. _Jason?_

But it was not him. It was a man with great bushy eyebrows and a red nose. She let out a shaky breath and took another sip of her champagne.

"Miss Hudson?"

"Oh!" She turned in surprise to see the Colonel standing there, next to Dr. Watson.

"Forgive me, I did not mean to startle you."

"Oh, not at all. I'm sorry I didn't see you. "

"Here, let me take your glass, Miss Hudson," Watson said.

"Thank you, Uncle."

Colonel Hinds nodded to the doctor, then offered his arm to Christine. She took it, butterflies beginning to stir in her stomach again. _Please let it be a waltz or something I know!_

To her comfort, it was the quadrille. The dance consisted of sixteen couples, in groups of four couples at each corner of the floor. The music started, a catchy animated tune, and all of the couples bowed and curtsied to each other. The two couples opposite the square that made up Christine and Colonel Hinds and the other couple began the dance while they waited their turn.

"It is a pleasant evening for a dance," the Colonel remarked as they watched the others.

"Oh yes," Christine replied. "Very pleasant."

He nodded, and grew quiet again.

_I hate small talk,_ Christine thought. _It's so awkward. What should I say?_ "It was very kind of your family to host this ball."

"Yes…Lord Graham holds it every year. More on my sister's insistence, I think, than his own wishes," he added quietly, a touch of impatience in his voice. He glanced at her. "Have you attended before? I don't believe I've ever seen you."

"No, I've never been. My uncle recently received me from France. I've been there for the last few years."

"Oh? For educational purposes, I presume?"

"Yes."

"Did you get a chance to visit – oh, it's our turn." Their conversation was cut short as they carried out the steps of the quadrille. It was just like at Baker Street, but easier. The steps came more naturally with the tempo of the music to help Christine along, and the butterflies soon melted away. She smiled as the dance progressed; she was actually enjoying herself.

She was rather disappointed when the dance ended and Colonel Hinds began to lead her back to Dr. Watson.

"You were asking me a question, before we started the dance, Colonel?"

"Oh yes. I was wondering if you had a chance to visit Eiffel's Tower."

"I did. It was an experience never to be forgotten."

"I'm sure of that. I haven't seen it yet myself, but Lord Graham was there when it was still being assembled."

"Was he? What a marvelous thing, to see the tower in the midst of its construction."

"Indeed." In these short moments, they had made their way back to Dr. Watson. Colonel Hinds bowed to her. "Thank you for the dance, Miss Hudson."

She curtsied. "Thank you, Colonel."

When he was out of sight, Watson said, "Well done, Miss Hudson. You performed the quadrille very well."

"Thank you. It's only because of your help, you know."

He laughed quietly.

Throughout the next half hour, two more gentlemen, a Mr. Brian Finney and a Mr. Ethan Binder, asked her to dance. After this, she stood by and watched while Dr. Watson danced with a woman whose name she did not catch.

As she stood there, she looked around the ball room some more. As she did so, she unintentionally caught the eye of a man who was looking at her. He was an older man, with a larger hawk like nose, and he smiled at her, eyes glinting strangely.

She smiled momentarily in return, then looked away, but saw out of the corner of her eye that he was making his way towards her. _I can't introduce myself, and my escort is dancing. What do I do?_

But just as she finished this thought, someone moved quickly past her, knocking into her shoulder.

"I beg your pardon, mademoiselle! Please, forgive me."

"It's alright, monsieur," she said, and looked up wonderingly into the familiar eyes of Mr. Holmes.

The song ended suddenly, and Dr. Watson came off the floor, passing his partner off onto a group of ladies after bowing to her.

"Good evening, monsieur," Mr. Holmes greeted his friend.

"Good evening," the doctor returned.

"I am Monsieur Edmond Lemaire," he said, bowing his head slightly.

"Dr. Edward Burke. Pleasure to meet you. This is my niece, Miss Ellen Hudson."

"We have already met, but not introduced. I made the unfortunate mistake of bumping into your niece, monsieur." The detective turned to Christine. "Good evening, and again, my apologies, Mademoiselle Hudson."

"That's quite all right, Monsieur. It's a pleasure to meet you."

Mr. Holmes looked out at the dance floor for a moment. "Would you grant me the pleasure of this dance, Mademoiselle?"

"_Oui, Monsieur."_

As they made their way out onto the floor, she gave him a strange look and quietly spoke to him. "I thought you didn't like to dance. And what happened back there?"

"I do not like to dance," he answered. "And as for bumping into you, I had to prevent you meeting that rake, if you'll forgive the expression, Mademoiselle."

"Rake? Who?"

"The man who was coming towards you. Edward Sanford. He's a notorious cad, and I wouldn't have you associate with him."

"Oh. _Merci, monsieur._"

Mr. Holmes nodded. "How are you holding up, Miss Hudson?"

"Fine. Have…have you seen Jason yet?"

"No."

"Neither have I…."

They passed the rest of the dance mostly in silence, then after the song was done, the detective escorted her back to Watson, and satisfied that Edward Sanford was no longer in sight, vanished again into the crowd.

Christine danced once more dance with a young man named Mr. John Hector McFarlane, then decided to take a breather and watch Dr. Watson dance again.

He danced very well, and looked as if he were enjoying himself very much. Christine nodded her head slightly in time to the music, smiling as she watched him turn and spin his partner.

"Hello, Christine."

The sudden voice behind her sent icy fingers playing down her spine. If she still had her champagne glass, she would have surely dropped it in her surprise. _Jason!_

_**A/N**_

_AHHHHHH! Here we go!_

_**Guests:**__ These people are all my tributes to the fine actors and actresses from the much-beloved Granada series. Mr. and Mrs. Williams are a tribute to actress Rosalie Williams, who played Mrs. Hudson. Lord and Lady Brette, of course is my homage to Jeremy Brett. And we can't forget Dr. Edward Burke, a fusion of the two Watsons, Edward Hardwicke and David Burke._

_**Colonel Rufus Hinds: **__Colonel, from "Colonel Brandon" from Sense & Sensibility; Rufus from "Rufus Sewell," a favourite actor of mine; and Hinds from "Ciaran Hinds" another favourite actor._

_**Monsieur Edmond Lemaire:**__ Edmond, named after "Edmond Dantes," main character of The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas; Lemaire sounds like "le Mayor" – from a line from Les Miserables, one of my absolute favourite plays._

_**John Hector McFarlane**__: Hey! It's that guy from the Norwood Builder!_

_**Edward Sanford: **__Edward as in "Edward Fox," actor who played that creepy lecherous villain, Sir Mulberry Hawk, in Nicholas Nickleby and Sanford, a rake type of a character in Hannah Foster's "The Coquette."_

_**Jason Lanaghan's eyes: **__I'm not sure if I've established this or not yet (forgive me if I have), but I can't describe Jason's eyes as being anything other than "cold" and "icy." I based them off the eyes of actor Charles Dance. If you google him and get a good picture of his face, you'll know what I'm talking about._


	11. Lanaghan

**Chapter Eleven: Lanaghan**

Christine stood stock still, but made sure to keep nodding her head to the music, pretending she hadn't heard him. After all, he was talking to _Christine_, not Ellen Hudson.

"Christine."

She bit her lip and tried to calm herself. She had to be absolutely placid when she turned around to face him.

"Christine!" She felt his hand suddenly seize her shoulder, and whirled.

"Sir!" She exclaimed and put on a shocked face to react to his behavior. She was sure the expression looked very natural, for she was not only surprised to see him, but surprised as his appearance.

His ponytail had been cut off, his hair neatly combed and slicked back. The goatee she was so used to seeing was also gone; he was very clean shaven. His earring was missing as well, and he was dressed in a sleek black tuxedo. But despite all of these changes, his eyes were still the icy blue chips she knew so well.

"Hello, Christine," he hissed at her.

She cocked her head slightly. "I beg your pardon?"

Jason's expression darkened. "Don't play games with me."

"Games, sir?" she asked, throwing him the best confused look she could come up with.

"Don't insult me, Christine."

"I would never dream of insulting a gentleman such as yourself, sir." She glanced out at the dance floor where Dr. Watson was. "And my name is Ellen, not Christine. Ellen Hudson. My uncle is danc–"

Jason scowled and took hold of her arm, pulling her close.

"Sir! Please let go," she whispered urgently, looking around. "This could present the wrong impression…you must have me confused with another lady."

"This is wearing thin, Christine. Give up the act."

Christine forced herself to smile, but she was screaming inside. "I'm not acting, sir. Please let go of me. I've told you that my name is –"

"Mademoiselle Hudson?"

Jason hastily let go of her arm, and she turned. "Monsieur Lemaire."

"_Est cet homme vous dérange?" _Holmes asked, walking up to them.

"_Non, monsieur. Il est seulement l'erreur. _Monsieur Lemaire, this is…forgive me sir," she said, turning to Jason, "I haven't been told your name."

Christine could see in those wintry eyes that Jason was beginning to have slight doubts. He'd never seen her in a dress, much less a ball gown; she was quite sure he'd never seen her with her hair up, and was certain that he'd never heard her speak French.

"Lanaghan," he replied coolly. "Jason Lanaghan."

_Of course he isn't using an alias. There's no need…he's not from around here. Who would know him but me?_ She turned to Mr. Holmes again. "Monsieur Lemaire, this is Monsieur Lanaghan."

"Pleasure," Holmes said in his thick French accent, extending his hand.

Jason shook it stiffly.

"I was wondering, mademoiselle," Holmes said, turning his attention back to Miss Andrews, "If I may have the pleasure of your hand in the next dance?" He held out his hand, eyes locking with hers, trying to figure out if she was all right. Lanaghan's appearance had been very sudden – even _he_ hadn't seen him coming. She seemed fine at present, at least outwardly. Inwardly, he couldn't be sure; women were so difficult to read at times.

She prepared to take his hand. "Cert—"

"I am afraid that I have already asked _Miss Hudson_ for the next dance," Lanaghan interrupted. "But I will be glad to bring her to you afterward."

Christine threw Jason a startled look, then an apologetic one at Mr. Holmes. She put her hand lightly in Jason's outstretched palm, and as other dancers were coming off the floor, they made their way onto it.

Holmes spotted Watson escorting his partner to a group of people on the other side of the room, glancing at him only for a moment. He promised he wouldn't let her out of his sight.

As the music began to play, Holmes watched Miss Andrews and Lanaghan dance, and he found himself suddenly struck with a fierce desire to protect her from him. This man had caused her much pain and persecution, and he disliked him greatly.

He hated the way Lanaghan held her; he was much too rough and jerky in his movements to be dancing with a lady. He also hated how the man looked down at her, glaring with those freezing eyes. And he hated the fear in Miss Andrews' demeanor.

Anyone else wouldn't have seen the subtle clues that he did. She wanted to get away from him so badly, though she was being very good at hiding the fact. Holmes could tell, in the way she leaned very slightly away from him, in the way that she tried to only barely touch his hand, that she wished nothing more desperately than to flee from his grasp.

Watson thanked the lady for the dance, and as he walked back in Miss Andrews' direction, sought her out. _She was here a moment ago…there's Holmes, but where…._ He followed his friend's gaze out to the dance floor, and recognized Miss Andrews, who was dancing with a red-haired gentleman.

But it was not until the man turned that he saw the indeed cold grey eyes, and realized it was Lanaghan. His eyes widened, but he soon composed himself and walked as casually as he could manage over to Holmes. "Ah. _Bonjour, Monsieur."_

"_Bonjour," _Holmes replied, never taking his eyes off of Miss Andrews and Lanaghan. The song seemed to last much longer than it did. They talked as they danced, but he hadn't yet perfected the art of reading lips and could not pick out what they were saying. Lanaghan increased his hold on her hand at one point, staring at her fiercely, and she glanced sharply at him. Holmes went rigid at this, but did not move for fear of attracting unwanted attention. To his relief, Lanaghan soon lessened his hold.

Miss Andrews remained calm throughout this entire period. Holmes felt a certain pride as he watched her; a lesser woman would have folded under such pressure. She was doing marvelously.

At last the song came to a close, and Miss Andrews clapped along with the other guests. Lanaghan stood by, rigid as a board, and offered his arm to her once the applause had stopped.

As they approached Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson, Christine gestured to the latter. "Mr. Lananaghan," she said softly, "May I introduce my uncle, Dr. Edward Burke."

"Mr. Lanaghan," Watson said, and shook Lanaghan's hand.

"Sir." Lanaghan said.

Holmes could tell from Lanaghan's demeanor and expressions that he was having a hard time keeping himself convinced that the woman next to him was indeed Christine Andrews.

The musicians began to tune up for the next song, and Holmes offered his arm to Miss Andrews. "Mademoiselle?"

She smiled and took it gratefully.

"Thank you for the dance, Mr. Lanaghan," she called over her shoulder. As Mr. Holmes took her hand and began to turn smoothly to the waltz, he asked, _"__Êtes vous bien?"_

"_Oui,"_ she anwered. She was obviously more relaxed than she had been just a few minutes before. _"Merci, Monsieur."_

He nodded. When they had moved further out onto the dance floor, he made sure his back was to Lanaghan and said quietly, "What did he say to you? Keep smiling."

"He asked about my family, where I grew up, things like that. Rude of him. But I think he fell for it. I just told him what you said to; I told him my mother had died in childbirth, and my father in a railway accident, and that Dr. Burke had raised me afterwards. I _think_ I fooled him, but I'm not quite sure. I'm so afraid that he knows it's me." She lowered her eyes.

"Keep your head up, Mademoiselle Hudson….I think you've given him reason to doubt your identity. He did not seem very sure of himself after he came off the floor. And hopefully Dr. Burke is reinforcing that fact," he added, glancing over at Watson.

The doctor and Lanaghan were deep in conversation.

Christine watched as Dr. Watson nodded, shook his head, replied to Lanaghan's questions, and once, even laughed, shaking his head, at which point Lanaghan straightened up, obviously agitated.

As Holmes led her back to Watson, Lanaghan turned to her. "Miss Hudson," he said with some difficulty, "I hope you will forgive me for pressing you earlier. I had you confused with someone else."

Christine forced a smile. "It's quite all right, Mr. Lanaghan. No harm done." She watched as bowed stiffly to her, nodded at Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes, and left them. He whisked a glass off of a startled butler's tray and downed it as he walked.

"_Excuse moi," _Holmes said, bowed his head to them, and left also.

"Uncle," Christine asked, coming close to Watson, "What were you laughing at a little while ago?"

"Eh? Oh." Watson chuckled. "He asked me if you were a very outspoken woman. I laughed and told him 'Not in the least!'" His eyes twinkled.

Christine smiled. "Thank you." Her smile dwindled as she looked into the crowd, subtly searching for Jason's red head.

Though he did not approach her again that night, Christine could often feel Jason's eyes on her. It was only in Dr. Watson's company or when she knew Mr. Holmes was watching that she truly felt safe. She noticed that, while she danced more times that evening, Jason did not dance again. Nor did Mr. Holmes, though when she caught sight of him, she observed several women looking his way in hope of a partner.

As the time grew late, however, she didn't see the detective anywhere. _He must be somewhere…but I can't find him._ As the doctor came off the floor, she asked him if he had seen Mr. Holmes. After looking around, Watson shook his head but said he'd keep an eye out.

Finally the crowd began to thin as people made their way home. Christine retrieved her cloak and Dr. Watson his coat, and they hailed a cab. Anxiety was beginning to build up in her stomach as she looked around at the dispersing crowds. She _still_ couldn't find Mr. Holmes.

"Come, Miss Hudson," Dr. Watson's voice caused her to turn. He was standing at the door of a cab, holding out his hand.

"Sorry. Thank you." She took one last look around, then stepped up into the carriage. The doctor came in after her. After he had closed the door, she looked across him. "I don't see him," she said quietly.

"Don't worry about him," Watson said comfortingly. "Holmes is almost certainly back at Baker Street already, waiting for us."

Christine sighed and leaned back as the carriage began to roll away from the building. "You're probably right."

- - -

When they arrived back at Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson cast a wondering eye on Dr. Watson's red chin and cheeks; he had just removed his beard.

"Has Holmes had anything to eat yet?" Watson asked her.

"Mr. Holmes? I haven't seen him since you left, doctor. I assumed he was coming back with you."

"No…he…took another cab." He glanced warily at Miss Andrews, whose looks were now downcast and troubled. "But I'm sure he'll be back soon enough."

Mrs. Hudson nodded, then turned to Christine. "Did you enjoy yourself, Miss Andrews?"

"Hmm?" Christine jerked her head up. "Oh. Yes, yes I did. It was a very fun time."

"I'm glad to hear it. Why don't you go up to your room and change out of your gown, then I'll bring some tea and biscuits up to the consulting room."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," Watson said, and they started up the stairs.

- - -

In the half-hour it took Christine to change from her ball gown to one of her ordinary day dresses, Mr. Holmes did not arrive. She kept listening for his voice, or the scrape of his violin, but only silence fell on her ears.

"You mustn't worry, Miss Andrews," Dr. Watson told her, pouring her some tea. "Sometimes Holmes goes missing for three days at a time."

"But not when there's a man with a time machine on the loose," she mumbled.

"Beg pardon?"

"Nothing. Thank you," she added, pulling her teacup closer.

"Certainly." Watson put the teapot down, his heart sinking a little. He hated when women were troubled, especially when there was nothing he could do to help the matter. He took a sip from his cup, then cleared his throat. "You did very well tonight," he said.

She looked up at him and smiled half-heartedly. "Thank you. I couldn't have done it without you."

Watson shook his head. "I doubt that…all the same, I'm glad we were there with you. Lanaghan seems like a nasty character."

"He is…" she whispered. "I hope Mr. Holmes isn't with him. If he is…if Jason does anything to him, I…I…." She broke off and put her right hand to her mouth, leaning her elbow on the table. She turned her face away from Dr. Watson.

"My dear Miss Andrews," Watson said hastily, bringing his chair closer to her and taking her left hand, "Please don't fear. There's no way to know if Holmes is even with Lanaghan. But if he _is_…if there's one thing I know about Holmes, it's that he knows how to take care of himself. He's devilishly clever, you know."

Miss Andrews looked back at him, and he offered her an encouraging smile. "Yes, you're right," she nodded. "I'm sorry. I'm sure he'll be fine."

"Of course he will," Watson said, his smile growing. "Come. Let's sit by the fire and wait for him."

After regaining her composure, Christine settled herself onto the sofa with a cup of tea and the last of the Time Machine to distract her.

Watson, meanwhile, sat in his usual chair and opened Robert Louis Stevenson's _The Black Arrow_; it had been a Christmas gift from Holmes in their early years together. He opened the book to its place, and looked at the clock. Nine fifteen.

- - -

Around eleven fifty, Watson yawned and made his way into to the kitchen for a fresh pot of tea. Miss Andrews insisted on staying awake until the detective came home and the doctor wasn't about to have her wait by herself.

As he uncapped the teapot, he heard the click of the door. "Holmes?"

"Watson!" His friend came into view, peeling off his fake moustache. The detective sniffed, then patted the doctor heartily. "You played your part splendidly!"

"You're in good humor," Watson said sourly. "Where the devil have you been?"

Holmes' eyes glittered. "With Lanaghan. He spilled everything."

Watson yelped as he nearly spilled boiling water over his hand. "He did?" He turned his shocked face to his friend. "However did you manage that?"

Holmes let out a barking laugh. "He was complaining about the champagne, Watson, so I took him to the King's Head, where he promptly got himself drunk."

"And he told you everything?"

"Nearly. I know where he is staying, I know the names of his accomplices…he was very upset, you know. All the better for drinking."

"You had better tell Miss Andrews that," Watson said, coming out of the kitchen with the tea tray.

"Do you mean to say that she's still awake?" Holmes said in astonishment, turning on the stair.

The doctor nodded. "She's been terribly worried about you, Holmes."

Holmes looked down at his colleague for a moment longer in surprise, then gazed up at the door of the consulting room and began to quickly ascend the stairs. _Worried about me? Whatever for? Did she think I was in danger? Doesn't she realize that I can defend myself? But then again, women worry so easily…. Still, I am sorry to have caused her concern._ He flung open the door, and Christine leapt from her place on the sofa.

Her wide-eyed look was replaced instantly by the most relieved expression, which melted into one of the most beautiful smiles Holmes thought he'd ever seen.

"Mr. Holmes!" she cried happily, and came over to him.

"Miss Andrews," he returned quietly, smiling. He took her hand. "You did wonderfully tonight."

She blushed. "Thank you, Mr. Holmes. I couldn't have done it without your help."

He chuckled, then said, "I have good news, Miss Andrews. You'd best sit down. When Watson comes in, I'll tell you the whole story."

_**Translations:**_

Holmes: Is this man bothering you?

Christine: No sir. He is only mistaken.

Holmes: Are you all right?

Christine: Yes, thank you sir.

_**A/N**_

_This chapter probably should have been up sooner, but I kept tweaking it. As Amator Linguae observed in the last chapter, "Holmes is getting a wee bit protective, isn't he?"_

_It would sure seem so! I didn't want to overdo it, though, so I had to keep revising this chapter. I hope you enjoy it, as always, I enjoy feedback about character development, description, etc._

_Was Lanaghan bad enough? If he's not, just wait until the next chapter, which will probably be on the long side._

_Thank you for your comments! I look forward to reading critique and commentary on this chapter as well!_

"_**Christine forced herself to smile, but she was screaming inside"**__ – a reference to the song "Speak No Evil" by LittleHorse – a band that also does Sherlock Holmes Music!_


	12. The Beaufort Mansion

_**A/N **__I really hope everyone likes this chapter. I hope things aren't rushed, but if they are going too fast, I want you to tell me. If things don't make sense either, I want you to tell me. Happy reading!_

**Chapter Twelve: The Beaufort Mansion**

"I can't believe you got him to talk! How? What did you do? Where did you go?" Christine fell silent and sat with her full and utmost attention on Mr. Holmes.

The detective, still in his tuxedo, gratefully took a sip of tea from the cup Watson handed him. "Lanaghan," he began, "was watching you the entire time."

"I know. I could feel him." Christine shivered involuntarily.

"But at last he gave it a rest and went to the refreshment table. By the time I got there, he'd already downed two glasses of champagne; I took one myself and stood by him. I heard him say something about the drinks not being strong enough, and I agreed. After standing there a couple of moments, I told him I knew of a place that served good, strong drinks. He asked me where it was, and I told him I would take him there. And so I did – after I persuaded him, I hailed a cab, and we took it to the King's Head, one of the more upscale pubs in London…." Holmes paused to take another drink of tea, then continued. "I offered to buy him a drink, and he agreed. After a few _more_ drinks, I commented on Ellen Hudson.

By this time, he was quite drunk, and did not hesitate in talking to me about how he had been confused and had taken Miss Hudson for someone else, someone named Christine. He went on and on about how he would never be able to get home without you, though he never said _why_." Holmes impatiently waved his hand. "I finally had to _interrupt_ him to ask him if he'd been in London long and where he was staying. It took him a few moments to remember, but he told me in a most disgraceful slur that it was the Beaufort Mansion."

"Beaufort? You don't mean Ashton Beaufort, Holmes?" Watson asked.

"The same, Watson." Holmes' eyes gleamed as he nodded slowly. "He told me that Ashton Beaufort's lowly nephew Brendan Beaufort is one of his associates and because his uncle is away in Italy until April, Lanaghan is using the mansion. Now, I know that Brendan Beaufort was a drunken gambler and was disowned from his family, so I doubt his uncle knows anything about this matter.

But to continue, I made some inquiries about Lanaghan's work. He told me that he was a historian of torture methods, and began to ramble on about some of them. He digressed for some time, being very drunk. I managed to catch the names of his associates, however, as he went on about how incompetent they were and how messy. It looks as though there are four accomplices to worry about, Watson. Three of them we've already met – the day after you arrived, Miss Andrews. Moore, Cunningham, and Rutherby. Rutherby once worked with Moriarty, Miss Andrews, so I believe he and Lanaghan to be the worst of the lot. Cunningham I don't like either, but he and Moore should not be difficult to apprehend. The other, of course, is Brendan Beaufort, who should not problematic either."

"What else did he say?" Christine asked as Mr. Holmes paused to finish off his cup.

"That was all I needed, and I didn't want to push him further. So I urged him to leave, and hailed him a cab."

Christine leaned forward, a puzzled look on her face. "I don't understand. Why didn't you follow him? Why didn't you bring him here and interrogate him? We could have found out where the time machine was."

"I did not follow him because I knew where he was going. Also, I was not armed or prepared for a possible attack by his men. I did not bring him here in order to question him because he's not the type that would talk under pressure or threat. The only reason he told me anything was because he was upset, drunk and I was speaking to him very casually. He only related the things I told you – he said nothing of the time machine, or anything to do with the future. The only thing he mentioned about you was your name and how he needed to find you to return home.

He's a careful man, Miss Andrews; even in his drunken stupor, he whispered his destination to the cabbie. Besides, we were always in a public place. I couldn't threaten him for fear of attracting unwanted attention."

Christine nodded, then threw Mr. Holmes another confused look. "Wait…you said you knew where he was going? I mean, you know where this Beaufort place is?"

"I do. It just so happens that Ashton Beaufort was a client of mine, some time ago. I know where he lives and I remember the layout of his mansion fairly well. I propose, tomorrow night, that we three go there. Armed and with the element of surprise on our side, I believe that we can overtake Lanaghan and his men. We will obtain the time machine, place Lanaghan's accomplices into police custody, and you can be on your way home."

Christine sank back against the sofa, her mouth slightly open. "I don't believe this." A sudden smile spread over her features, and she turned to the detective. "I don't know what to say…except thank you. Thank you, Mr. Holmes."

- - -

_March 15 1895, _she wrote.

_It's well past midnight, but I must write. Tomorrow I am going home. Mr. Holmes knows where Jason has been hiding, and we're going there tomorrow. He's sure that if we arm ourselves and because we'll have surprise on our side, we'll be able to get by Jason's men. Since Jason always has the time machine on hand or at least near, we'll be able to get it from him and I'll be back in 2007 before you know it._

_If I set the machine right, no one will be able to tell that Jason and I went anywhere. __NOTE: remember to take out cell phone as you go._

_That way, I can call the police upon arrival._

_In other news…tonight, or last night rather, was the Graham Ball. I enjoyed myself very much, except for the bit with Jason. I danced with several handsome gentlemen, but I think my favourite dances were the ones where I danced with Mr. Holmes, who's not actually fond of dancing himself…._

It was here that Christine's pen trailed off. Her thoughts swam back to the evening, to when Mr. Holmes had come upon her so suddenly. _He was only dancing with you, _she told herself,_ to keep you from associating with that other man -- the "notorious cad." And the other time, he was protecting you from Jason. _Christine set down her pen and took her candle from the desk, making her way towards her bed. _But,_ a little voice whispered as she climbed in, _it's possible that he _did_ just want to dance with you, too._

With this possibility and the assurance of home in her mind, Christine blew out the candle and, content, fell asleep.

- - -

"You have your revolver, Watson?" Holmes asked. It was now the next day, at five o'clock. The Beaufort Mansion was in Tilbury. It would take them a little over an hour to get there.

Christine, clothed in a traveling dress and feeling the heavy weight of the brass knuckles in her coat pocket, stood nervously by. She watched as the doctor nodded and pulled his service revolver into view out of his inside coat pocket just long enough for Holmes to see it.

"Excellent. Are you ready, Miss Andrews?"

Christine nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Let's be off then. If I'm not mistaken, I heard the cab pull up just now." Holmes grabbed his walking stick and then took a neat leather case off the table which he tucked under his arm.

In no time at all, they were clattering their way over the streets of London in the direction of Tilbury. _In a few hours, I'll be back at home,_ Christine thought. As happy as she was to think that, the thought also saddened her. She glanced at Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson. _I'm going to miss them. And Mrs. Hudson. They've been so kind to me…._ Her eyes lingered on Mr. Holmes for a moment, then she felt her cheeks grow warm and looked away.

"Leave whatever fighting might be done to us, Miss Andrews," Holmes said, looking out at the gas lamps flashing by. "But if someone comes at you –"

"I have my brass knuckles, Mr. Holmes. I should be all right." She turned and smiled confidently at him, but it soon faded, betraying her anxiety. She just wanted it all to be over. She hoped that no one would be hurt tonight.

Soon the paved and cobblestone roads made way for dirt ones, and buildings grew more and more scarce. The dark was gathering at the edges of the horizon, and shortly it was evening. The sky grew progressively darker the further they went. The ride was passed mostly in silence, until, almost an hour and a half later, Holmes said quietly, "There."

Christine turned in her seat to look out the window. A great mansion loomed blackly against the sky, menacing and mysterious.

Holmes thumped on the roof of the carriage with his walking stick, and it came to an abrupt stop.

The three of them got out of the cab, and Holmes signaled for it to move on. He didn't want the driver to drop them at the house, or to even stop for too long in the middle of the road, for fear of exposing them.

"Stay low," he told them, crouching in the line of hedges that led up to the house's driveway. "Keep your eyes open for anyone. If someone sees us, we'll have to draw our guns, Watson."

"You don't intend to shoot, Holmes," Watson said, looking hard at his friend.

"Only if they fire at us, Watson," the detective assured him. "Come." Bending low under cover of the hedges, the three of them cautiously made their way towards the Beaufort Mansion. After taking a long, careful look around, they ran across the gravel-strewn circular driveway and flattened themselves against the wall of the wide, columned porch.

Holmes stretched out his gloved hand and gently turned the door knob. Locked. He nodded knowingly and took the brown leather case out of his pocket. Opening it across his knee, he revealed a neatly arranged collection of strange and varied tools.

Christine's thoughts flew back to _The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton,_ and how the detective had used the same set of devices to break into the home of a master blackmailer.

A few moments later, Holmes was gently jiggling a long thin tool through the keyhole. He could feel Miss Andrews watching him, but didn't look up. A moment more of intense concentration, and he let out a satisfied sigh as a soft click met his ears. He put the tool with its companions back into the brown leather case, tucked it into his pocket, and pulled out his revolver.

Watson did the same, and gestured for Miss Andrews to get behind him. At a nod from Holmes, they swung the door open.

The only thing that greeted them was a dark, empty hall.

The house was cold, and there wasn't a single gaslight or candle to be seen anywhere. The entrance hall was very large, with a grand staircase right in front of them and hallways branching left, right and past the stairs.

Holmes looked around, his gun still raised. He motioned for Watson to close the door, and for Miss Andrews to stay back.

Christine watched as the detective walked, silently and smoothly as a cat, to the left where the entrance hall turned into a corridor. He edged to the start of this hallway, and peeked around the corner. Dr. Watson did the same with the right hallway, with Christine next to him.

The gentlemen looked at each other, and shook their heads. The halls were clear. Holmes trod silently to the middle of the entrance hall and listened, eyes narrowed as his ears strained for any sort of noise. His careful expression turned into a scowling one. "They're not here. They've left."

"Maybe they've left some clues behind," Christine said.

"Yes..." Mr. Holmes nodded slowly as his voice trailed off.

"Is something wrong?"

"There's no one here."

"Yes, you already --"

"No. I mean there's _no one_ here. Even with Ashton Beaufort gone, there should be a small staff of servants to keep things tidy, collect mail.....I don't like this, Watson."

Watson came closer to his friend. "Do you think it's some sort of trap?" he whispered.

"I don't think so. They're gone....But just the same, we must be careful." Holmes clenched his teeth, then shook his head. "Come, let's look in some of these rooms. No, you come with us, Miss Andrews," he said as she began to go in the opposite direction, "I don't what us to be apart should someone return."

Christine nodded, and the three of them made their way down the left hallway. Holmes inspected the floor, but it was clean, devoid of visible footprints or anything meaningful. He then began to open the many doors in the hallway.

Christine and Dr. Watson followed suit. While the detective and the doctor inspected the first room, Christine went to the next room. It was a music room, with a grand piano and several elegantly-furnished chairs. A painting of a woman with a pug in her arms adorned the mantle above the fireplace.

Christine glanced around the room and inspected the shelves filled with books on music and poetry, but it looked as if nothing in this room had been touched.

She moved on to the next room, moving aside for Mr. Holmes as he went into the music room. Watson went into one of the two rooms on the opposite side of the hallway. The next room's knob was locked. Staring through the large keyhole, she could see that it was only a room with furniture covered in dust cloths. A sitting room, by the looks of things.

So she moved to the fourth room. As she approached it, a strange smell met her. It smelled sickly, unpleasant, but familiar. She reached for the knob and turned it, holding a hand to her nose and wondering what it was that she smelled.

She pushed the door open, and as the room was revealed, it was all she could do to keep from crying out in terror.

Firm hands suddenly seized her shoulders from behind, whirling her around, and she found herself pressed into the folds of Mr. Holmes' tobacco-scented coat.

She clutched at him, burying her face in his shoulder, desperately trying to erase the vision from her mind. He held her tightly against him, steering her away from the doorway. She heard him close the door as they went.

They continued away from the room until he turned and leaned against the wall between the third and fourth door.

Watson came out of the room across the hall, and his eyes immediately went to Holmes. The detective was leaning against the wall opposite, holding Miss Andrews against him. She seemed to be shaking, and Holmes' lips were in a tight, white line, his eyes troubled.

Watson caught his gaze, and his friend's eyes momentarily flicked to the door to their right. The doctor's brow furrowed, and he made his way towards the door. _What could possibly be in that room that's upset them like this?_ He reached for the door handle, but before he touched it, Holmes' hand shot out and seized his arm.

He looked at him in startled confusion.

"Prepare yourself, Watson," the detective said quietly, releasing his arm.

Watson swallowed and reached for the handle. He turned it, and slowly pushed it open. He was first greeted with a smell that was so familiar to him as a doctor that he wondered how he could have missed it at the first. It was blood.

But the sight before him drowned out all of his other senses and caused him to involuntarily step backwards. "Good Lord…." he whispered, raising a hand to his mouth.

Within lay six or more dead bodies, all servants. Men and women both, lying in a mangled pile with cold lifeless eyes staring at nothing.

His profession urged him to go into the room to determine time and cause of death, but his feet moved like blocks of lead. It was a full few minutes before he worked up enough nerve to venture further. He heard Miss Andrews whimper against Holmes as he went into the room.

Upon closer inspection, he found that these people had not just been killed. They'd been tortured.

Several had bruises, deep cuts and lacerations, and more than one had deep dark bruises around their necks that only nooses could have formed.

From the state and stiffness of the bodies, they'd only been dead a few hours. _They were only killed a couple hours ago…which means that Lanaghan and his men left only recently. That means that they might be coming back to dispose of the bodies!_

He quickly backed out of the room, shutting the door. "Holmes," he said, "We should go. Those people haven't been dead for more than a few hours."

Holmes' lightning quick mind surmised what Watson had deduced about Lanaghan and his men. He nodded, then slowly released Miss Andrews from him. Her face was drawn and pale.

With a sharp and sudden pang of guilt, Holmes regretted bringing her. _A woman should never have to witness such horror._ "Come, Miss Andrews. We must leave this place. Lanaghan may return. It seems he has a larger force of men than I thought."

"Jason did this," she whispered, her eyes lingering on the closed door. "He tortured and killed them…he did this."

"Come," Holmes said, gently placing his hand on her cheek and turning her face away from the door. "We must go."

With Holmes holding onto Miss Andrews' arm, he and Watson made their way out into the main hall, and were halfway to the door when a noise stopped all three dead in their tracks.

"Voices," the doctor whispered.

They listened for a moment as the voices grew louder, approaching the door.

"Up the stairs! Quickly!" Holmes hissed. The three ran up the stairs and Holmes pulled Miss Andrews into the shadow of the railing as the door creaked open.

Two men walked in, and then were followed by a third and fourth.

The first looked back at the door. "I thought we locked that."

The third man shrugged in response.

The first shook his head. "Tell Winfrey to hurry it up." He was tall, sandy-haired and had a tattoo on his left palm. "I just want to dump the stiffs and get out of here." He walked towards the left hallway.

The fourth had gone to get Winfrey, but the second and third followed the first man. The second was a thin, weasely sort of man; the third was a big bruiser with a large brow.

The first man began to head down the hallway, but halted when a small crunch, loud in the silent hallway, met his ears. He turned slowly. "What was that?"

The big man lifted his shoe and stepped backward; the smaller man bent before him and picked a small object off the floor.

"What _is_ it?" the first man asked impatiently.

The small man held the unknown object close to his eyes. "Looks like an earring. Or what's left of it."

Christine's eyes widened and her hands flew to her ears. Her left earring was there, but the right…the right one was gone. She turned to Mr. Holmes, her eyes growing wider. His eyes met hers, and he placed his hand on her shoulder reassuringly.

"Let me see it," the first man said.

"It probably belonged to one of the servants," the small man replied, handing it over.

"Did you ever see any of the servants with jewelry?"

"Well, no…."

"Exactly. That means…" His voice grew quiet, and his eyes swept the room as he dropped the earring. "There's someone here."

The other two stiffened and looked around.

The fourth man and now a fifth, presumably Winfrey, stopped short in the doorway at his words.

"Beaufort. Cunningham. Upstairs. Moore, come with me. Winfrey, check this level. Oy, Everly," he called outside. "Watch the door. Anyone comes out, you know what to do."

Holmes slowly drew Christine further away from the railing as he and Watson backed into the shadows of the hall.

Beaufort, a dark-haired, nervous looking man with a long nose, and Cunningham, the small weasely man, looked up the flight of stairs and began to ascend.

"This way," Mr. Holmes whispered in Christine's ear.

They hurriedly made their way down the hall, trying to find a room in which to hide. Too soon they heard footsteps.

"_Hide,"_ Holmes whispered urgently. He ran into the nearest room; Watson ducked in after him.

But Christine was trailing behind, so anxious was she about their pursuers, that she dove into a room across the hall from the detective and the doctor.

"_Miss –"_ Holmes began, but was yanked backward by Watson as footsteps fell loudly in the hall and the creaking of opening doors met them.

As the footsteps drew closer, Holmes and Watson retreated further into the darkness of the room. Holmes studied the place with one sweep. Simple, clean furnishings. A servant's room. There would be nothing of use here, and no where to hide.

He felt Watson nudge him, and turning, saw the doctor gesturing to a door that would have been well concealed had it not been open. Since this was a servant's room, the door most assuredly led to a stair well which in turn went to the kitchen.

"You check that room. I'll check in here," they heard a cold voice say quietly.

One set of footsteps thumped across the hall; the other stopped at their door and pushed it open.

Holmes and Watson were halfway down the stairs when they heard the concealed door click open. They made their way down quickly and quietly, but Holmes stepped on a creaky stair, alerting their pursuer.

His quick, heavy footfalls sounded behind them, and they raced to the end of the stairwell.

As soon as they got to the bottom, Watson whipped out his service revolver, cocked it, and turned to the stairway. The man – not Cunningham but Beaufort – materialized out of the darkness with a scowl on his face. This scowl was replaced instantly with a look of shock and fear as he saw the revolver.

"Hands up," Watson said. "And not a sound."

Beaufort snapped his mouth closed and put his hands in the hair.

"In here," Holmes said, and directed the unfortunate man into a large pantry filled with onions and potatoes.

Beaufort obediently sat on an upturned barrel there within, silent, his hands still raised.

"Not a sound," Holmes repeated dangerously, and the man nodded, his eyes as big as saucers.

They then closed the pantry door and, as quietly as he could manage, Holmes placed a chair under the knob. "That will hold him. Watson, this has become too dangerous for only the two of us. I didn't realize Lanaghan had so many men. I fear we must bring the police into this." He moved closer to Watson and lowered his voice. "If I remember correctly, there is a long hall branching off from the kitchen. It leads into the ball room. You should see the way out from there, via a low balcony. Ready your revolver when you get to the exit. The nearest house isn't too far – you must fetch help."

"What about you?"

"I'm going to find Miss Andrews. We'll be right behind you."

Watson nodded, tucking the revolver back into his coat pocket until he got to the exit.

As Holmes turned toward the stair once more, Watson laid a hand on his shoulder. "Be careful, Holmes."

The detective nodded, and vanished into the shadowy stairwell.

- - -

Holmes listened at the door for any sound in the hall, but only silence met his ears. He crossed the corridor to the room Miss Andrews had gone into – the door was shut. After first looking around the hallway, he pushed it open. "Miss Andrews?" he whispered, raising his revolver. He took another step into the room, and stumbled over something.

He looked down, and his eyes widened in surprise. Cunningham lay there, quite unconscious. The shards of a broken vase – a heavy one, by the looks of it – lay near him.

_So she's been here. Well done, Miss Andrews._ He looked up, and saw that there was another exit out of the room. He went through it, closing both of the doors behind him as he went. He couldn't have Cunningham sneaking up on him should he wake.

Though Holmes knew Miss Andrews had passed this way, it was hard to tell where she had gone. The hallway was uncommonly dark, and Miss Andrews had the habit of stepping very lightly and on her toes, which barely left a mark for him to follow.

Soon he came to an intersection of hallways. He looked both right and left, but decided on the left, which led to a balcony of sorts. The balcony was small standing space but had a soaring opening, overlooking the massive ball room. Holmes approached it cautiously as he heard voices below him.

He peeked over the railing, to see Watson and Rutherby.

In the dim moonlight coming through a skylight window, the detective saw that Rutherby was facing the doctor, pointing a revolver at him. Holmes watched in horror as the man cocked the gun and aimed it straight at Watson.

"_WATSON!"_ Holmes cried. He whirled and ran back the way he had come. If he had been able to jump the distance from the balcony to the ballroom floor without breaking his legs, he would have done it in an instant. But his only chance was to go back the way he had come – through the room with Cunningham, down the stairs and through the hall which led into the ball room.

He urged his legs faster, faster. He sped through rooms, barely pausing long enough to whisk doors open; he careened around corners and clambered down the stairs so fast that he thought that at any moment he would fall.

But he couldn't fall. Falling would mean slowing down. Falling would mean not getting there in time. Falling would mean not being able to save –

As sudden as a bolt of lightning and every bit as piercing, a gunshot split the air.


	13. Too Close for Comfort

**Chapter Thirteen: Too Close for Comfort**

The noise shattered through Holmes' mind and heart as if they were glass. His breath caught in his throat and it felt as though his insides had turned to ice. As he increased his pace even further, horrible thoughts and visions flew through his mind. His dearest and most loyal friend in the world, wounded and bleeding. Gasping out his last on that cold floor. Dying. Dead.

The entrance to the ball room came into view and he sped up whipping out his revolver. Why in heaven's name hadn't he shot Rutherby from the balcony?!

As he slid into the doorway, he gasped out, "Joh--!" but stopped short.

Watson was standing there with his back to him, unharmed!

Rutherby was dead at his feet.

But Watson wasn't presently armed, so how….? A movement from the other side of the room caught his attention.

Miss Andrews was walking forward slowly, a revolver clenched tightly in her hands. She was staring in horror at the lifeless form of Rutherby, the shock on her face as apparent as the crimson ribbon streaming from the man's fatal head wound. Even from this distance, Holmes saw her tremble. She glanced down at the weapon in her hands, and let it clatter to the floor.

Christine's hands flew to her mouth in terror at what she'd done, devastation forming in her wide eyes. She looked from the dead body to the doctor. "Dr. Watson!" she cried, and ran to him.

He caught her and pulled her close. "It's all right, Miss Andrews," he said gently.

"Are you all right?" she whispered after a moment.

He nodded. "Yes. Thanks to you."

Her lower lip trembled, and she looked to the left. Rutherby was now illuminated in a bright patch of moonlight, causing the red stream of blood to become even more noticeable.

"Watson?"

The doctor turned at the quiet, faltering voice, still holding Miss Andrews. "Holmes." He'd never seen the detective so pale, even in illness. He'd heard his friend call out his name before the shot had been fired.

Holmes came forward, and silently put a hand on his shoulder. Watson took one of his arms from Miss Andrews and grasped his friend's hand. "I'm all right, Holmes."

The detective nodded stiffly, his lips firm. His heart was just now realizing that Watson was no longer in danger and was trying to slow down. "Are…are you all right, Miss Andrews?" he managed to say, trying not to linger on what had almost happened.

She didn't answer. Held against Dr. Watson's shoulder though she was, her eyes were still fixed on Rutherby's body.

"Miss Andrews?" When she still did not respond, Holmes moved and stood in her line of vision. She looked up at him, startled. "Are you all right, Miss Andrews?" he repeated quietly.

She began to nod, but it turned into a shake of the head and she bit her lip. Holmes could see that she was doing all she could not to cry, and raised a hand to touch her shoulder.

They heard the sound of the front door bursting open. _"Run for it, Winfrey! It's the coppers!"_ a voice yelled.

Fast, frantic footsteps were coming their way.

Watson pushed Miss Andrews behind him and stood in front of her protectively; Holmes stood next to his companion and they both raised their revolvers.

A young man with mousy brown hair and another in a plaid cap dashed into the room, only to slide to a halt in front of Holmes and Watson. Turning a sickly pale colour, they raised their hands.

"This way!" a deep voice called, and more footsteps approached. Into view came a young, strong looking officer in a brown bowler hat and matching suit, running full tilt until he saw the detective and the doctor.

"Mr. _Holmes_?" he said in surprise, peering at him.

"Jones."

"What're you _doing_ here? And who are these – good Lord, what's happened here?" He asked suddenly, catching sight of Rutherby's dead body.

"These men are not with us. I'll explain the rest outside," Holmes answered.

The officer nodded slowly. "Right. All right lads, this way," he said more roughly. He took Winfrey and his associate by the scruffs of their necks and shoved them ahead of him, into the waiting arms of his fellow officers.

Holmes took one look back at Watson and Miss Andrews, and began to follow Jones.

Christine's head turned to look at Rutherby's body, but she felt Dr. Watson's arm settle around her shoulders, guiding her away. "Come along, Miss Andrews."

Just a few minutes later, they were standing in the circular driveway, in the light of police lanterns and the moon. Winfrey and his comrade, Everly, were bustled into a paddy wagon with another one of Lanaghan's men, who called himself Lindt and kept swearing loudly in Dutch.

Watson cast him a disapproving look, and directed Miss Andrews to a bench at the edge of the driveway, apart from the commotion.

Holmes remained with the police, where he talked to Inspector Peter Jones for several minutes.

During this time, Christine sat with Dr. Watson very quietly, winding her fingers around her locket. She took deep, even breaths, willing herself every second not to cry. _I've killed a man. I've killed a man. He's dead, and _I_ killed him._ It was all she could think. She shrugged deeper into her coat, wishing she could just disappear into its folds and never come out again.

"They're pretty, aren't they." Watson said, catching her off guard.

She looked at him in surprise. "What?" she asked, her voice rather hoarse from the effort to keep tears back.

Watson nodded upwards, raising his eyes to the sky. "The stars."

She looked from him, up to the heavens. She knew he was only trying to distract her…but it worked. Her mouth parted. She'd never seen so many stars in her life. Out here in the country without any electric light or smoke or clouds to veil them, the pinpricks of light were more numerous and brighter than she'd ever witnessed. "Yes they are," she said, nodding. She willed her eyes to stay fixed above her, instead of gazing back to where the police and Mr. Holmes were standing. "My…my parents and I used to go camping in Shropshire," she told the doctor. "We'd go on long weekends, before my mother became ill. But even in Shropshire I don't think we saw this many."

"My wife and I used to take evening walks in Regents Park," Watson replied softly. "She loved to look at the stars."

The sorrowful timbre of his voice caused Christine to lower her eyes from the sky and fix them on the doctor. She'd forgotten about Mary Watson. She must have passed away during Mr. Holmes' long absence. "Oh, Dr. Watson. I'm…I'm so —"

"Dr. Watson? Could you come this way, please?" an officer asked, coming up to them.

Watson cleared his throat. "May I ask what for?"

"We'd just like to ask you some questions, sir."

"Oh. Of course. Just a moment. Holmes?" he called, and the detective looked his way. The doctor beckoned to him.

"What is it, Watson?"

"They're going to ask me some questions," Watson answered when they were a distance away from the officer. "What should I say when they ask me what I was doing here?"

"That you were helping me with a case. If they want more detail, tell them to come to me."

Watson nodded. "And Holmes?"

"Yes?"

"Will you stay with Miss Andrews? I don't think it's best that she be alone right now."

Holmes looked over at the woman, huddled in her coat, eyes downcast. After a moment of hesitation, he nodded. "Of course, Watson." As the doctor left to talk to a couple of officers, Holmes strode over to Miss Andrews.

Christine looked up at the tall figure of Mr. Holmes as he approached, but didn't want to meet his eyes and looked away. She was glad when he said nothing.

Holmes lingered near her, standing. He tried to think of something to say to her, but his mind couldn't settle on something fitting to the moment. He kept glancing at her as he stood with his hands behind his back, rocking slightly on his heels. At last he decided to sit down.

She withdrew further into her coat as he did so, pulling her arms in towards her chest and sinking her head down. Holmes could tell that she felt utterly ashamed and frightened at what she had done. He wished that he could free her of those guilty feelings. What had occurred wasn't any fault of hers. What she had done was heroic, even if it had ended grimly. Watson was alive, because of her.

This thought settled firmly into Holmes' mind as he watched her. She'd done many brave and incredible, if sometimes unladylike things in the few weeks he'd known her. Seeking him out by herself by going to the Diogenes Club, climbing on the roof to evade pursuers, chasing Caine through the streets of London and delivering him into the hands of the police, that splendid performance at the Graham Ball, and now the rescue of Watson.

"Are you warm enough, Miss Andrews?" he asked as she retreated deeper still into her coat. She raised her eyes to meet his, just for a second, and nodded. That momentary look wrenched his heart. It was so full of pain and disgrace that he could barely stand it.

"Miss Andrews," he began, but was interrupted as Inspector Jones neared and cleared his throat.

"Excuse me. Miss Andrews, is it?"

She lifted her gaze to the officer. "Yes, sir."

"Will you come with me? I would like to ask you a few questions."

She glanced from Jones to Holmes, her brow furrowing as her expression grew more concerned.

"Whatever you have to ask her, you can ask her here, Jones." Holmes said sternly.

Jones looked startled at the hardness in the detective's voice. "All right then." He took out a commonplace book and a pencil. "What were you doing here tonight, Miss Andrews?"

"I …was helping Mr. Holmes with a case."

"Is it _your_ case?"

"…yes."

"What brought you here?"

"We tracked a man here. He took something of mine."

"Oh? And what did he take?"

"I'm afraid that's personal, sir."

"Ah." He gave her a suspicious look, but to her relief did not press the matter further. He flipped the pages in the commonplace book back, and read something, after which he asked, "Will you please relate to me what happened after you were separated from Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson?"

"Um, yes." She paused and put a hand to her head. "I…I was in the room across the hall from them. Two men came down the hall – one went into their room. I was hiding behind a table when the other one came into my room. I waited until his back was turned and I hit him on the back of the head with a vase."

"Did you render him unconscious?"

"Yes, sir."

"Clarke!" Jones suddenly barked, turning.

"Sir?"

"Did you find a man unconscious in any of the upstairs rooms?"

"No sir. But it looked like someone _had_ been up there; we found some broken pottery."

"I want a sweep of this entire area. There's at least two men unaccounted for."

"Yes sir!"

Jones nodded and turned back to Miss Andrews. "Please continue."

"After he went down, I took his revolver and closed the door. I went out through another door. I don't really remember where I went after that; I just went through room after room until I found myself at a stairwell. I went down it, and it brought me to a hallway. I heard voices, and followed the hallway until I found where they were coming from. I saw Dr. Watson and that man--"

"Rutherby?" Jones interjected.

"I don't…" Christine looked at Mr. Holmes, and he nodded. "Yes, it was Rutherby. He was shouting at Dr. Watson, and then he pointed a gun at him. I heard Mr. Holmes yell the Doctor's name, and I took out the revolver and aimed it at Rutherby. It took me a moment to figure out how to cock it, but I did and then…." She trailed off, lowering her head.

Jones stopped writing and looked down at her. "And then?" he prompted.

Her voice sunk to a whisper. "I shot him."

Jones opened his mouth to ask another question, but stopped at Holmes' warning look. "Thank you, Miss Andrews. Where can we reach you if we have more questions?"

"You may ask me," Holmes replied. "She is my client."

"Whatever you say, Mr. Holmes." Jones said, and snapped the commonplace book closed.

"Are we free to go?" Holmes asked.

"Yes, sir. There's a cab waiting over there for your use. And here's your walking stick. One of my men found it -- you seemed to have dropped it in the house."

"Ah, yes. Should you need anything else, you know where to find me, Jones." Holmes said, and held out his hand to Miss Andrews. After he had helped her to her feet, he waved his walking stick at Watson, and the doctor met them at the cab.

The ride home was long, cold and deathly quiet. Christine fixed herself as snugly as she could into the corner of the seat, not wishing to be near anyone at the moment. She was dog tired, but couldn't sleep even though she desperately wanted to, just to tear her mind away from what had happened that night. Every time she closed her eyes, she could see that heap of dead bodies, and then the vision would flash forward to Rutherby's lifeless form pooled in blood.

Holmes sat next to Watson in silence, every minute more glad that his friend was _there_ to sit next to him. He settled back in the seat of the hansom with his walking stick between his knees, and let the motion of the cab ride through him. He studied Miss Andrews, pressed up against the wall.

He could see her eyes reflected in the window; sad, empty and frightened. What a change that sorrowful face was from the beaming, radiant creature who had greeted him last night.

He closed his eyes for a moment in regret; he wished again that he hadn't brought her. To see that horror, and then to be forced to act in such a way that any human being should never have to…. _Despite_ the night's trials, though, she hadn't broken down. She hadn't gone into hysterics, like he expected women to do.

But while most of him felt only remorse for her, there was part of him that felt almost angry. Didn't she realize what she'd done? She'd saved Watson's life! Yes, she killed a man, but she saved another in the process! The man she'd killed had assuredly killed before in cold blood, and hadn't been about to hesitate to do so again. On the other side was Watson, an innocent man who had only been trying to reach the police….

Holmes pursed his lips and looked away from Miss Andrews. He couldn't let her consume his thoughts.

- - -

Back at Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson came into the room to retrieve some of the dirty plates from the late evening meal she'd laid out for them.

She was irked, but not surprised to see Mr. Holmes' plate had not been used. She looked over at him; he was sprawled in his easy chair, smoking his pipe with smoke so thick around him that she could barely see his face.

On the other hand, she _was_ surprised to see that Dr. Watson's and Miss Andrews' plates had very little food on them – and barely anything had been taken from the serving dishes.

"Are you well, Miss Andrews?" Mrs. Hudson asked, casting a concerned eye upon her.

"Hm? Oh, yes, I'm fine, Mrs. Hudson," Christine answered quietly, putting down her fork. She'd only picked at her food. "I'm afraid I'm not very hungry this evening. I'm very tired…I think I'll go to bed. I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize, dear. I hope you feel more agreeable tomorrow."

"Yes, so do I." Christine replied, getting up from her chair. She helped Mrs. Hudson pile the plates on the tray, and opened the door for her.

"Good night, Dr. Watson," she said softly after the landlady had gone.

"Good night, Miss Andrews," Dr. Watson returned, opening the door for her.

She nodded at him, glanced at Mr. Holmes, and left for bed.

A moment after Miss Andrews had gone out the door, Holmes stood from his place by the fire and stretched leisurely.

Watson watched him from the sideboard. The detective had been silent, smoking and thinking all evening. The doctor wondered vaguely what he was thinking about…surely the events that had occurred that evening. He shook his head and finished pouring some whiskey into his glass.

"I could use some fresh tea," Holmes said suddenly. "Would you care for some, Watson?"

Watson looked down at his whiskey glass, then set it down. He'd drink that later. "Thank you, Holmes."

The detective left the room, quietly closing the door behind him. But instead of going down to the kitchen, he set the tea tray on a table there in the hall and darted up the stairs. He could still hear Miss Andrews ascending the flight above. He'd anticipated her pace to be rather slow this evening.

"Miss Andrews?" he called when he neared.

He heard the footsteps stop, and then begin again until she came into view.

"Mr. Holmes?"

"May I speak with you?"

"Yes, of course." She descended until she was standing level with him.

Holmes took a breath before speaking. "I wanted to talk to you earlier, but I was interrupted….I wanted to express my deepest regrets for what transpired tonight. Had I known, I would not have brought you."

"You don't have to –"

"Please, let me continue."

She fell silent and stood with her hands clasped.

"I also wanted to tell you that you must not blame yourself, Miss Andrews. What occurred tonight was out of your hands. You didn't—"

"Mr. Holmes, I _killed _that man—"

Holmes' voice rose swiftly and he took her by the shoulders. "But Watson is _alive_ because you did! An innocent man's life was preserved because you decided to _act!"_

Christine, though a bit shaken at this sudden outburst, found herself marveling at the passion in the detective's eyes. He'd been genuinely scared about Dr. Watson. It hurt her heart to think about what might have happened if she hadn't acted as she had.

Holmes' voice had grown quiet again. He released her. "…and I wanted to thank you for doing so. Watson is…" Holmes took a large breath and drew himself up, not wanting to appear overly sentimental. "Watson is a great friend to me."

"I know he is," she replied softly. "And I'm very glad that I was able to save him…if anything had happened to him or you, I…I…." her voice dropped, and Holmes watched as her lips tightened in an internal struggle against threatening tears. Finally she composed herself and said shakily, "If anything had happened, I would have never forgiven myself."

"Miss Andrews…." A new onset of guilt washed over Holmes. He hadn't intended to make her feel responsible.

"You two are my heroes, you know," she said abruptly, looking up at him. "You have been for a long time – ever since my mother introduced me to your cases, the year she died. She's the one who gave me the book I showed you. It's…it's hard to describe the amount of comfort you provided me after she was gone. Besides my father and Walter, you were the two men I looked up to the most."

Holmes' mouth parted in surprise; he couldn't think of a single response. He was quite speechless. Words of praise always pleased him, but no one had ever called him their _hero_. And this praise was coming from Miss Andrews, which he found he regarded as a pleasure all its own.

She blushed suddenly under his stare and lowered her eyes. "Well I…I'd better…good night, Mr. Holmes."

"Good night, Miss Andrews," he replied. He watched her ascend the stairs until she was out of sight, then slowly turned and made his way back to the consulting room, lost in his thoughts.

"Holmes?"

Holmes' head snapped up at the quizzical tone. "Yes, Watson?"

"Where have you put the tea?"

_**A/N **_

_I bet you're glad I didn't kill Watson! Nah, I could never do that to our favourite doctor. Or Holmes, for that matter._

_Speaking of Holmes…seems like something's developing between him and a certain time traveling lady!_

_Would appreciate input on this developing relationship, and the flow of the chapter._

_More excitement next time on…A STUDY IN TIME. Stay tuned…._

_Yes, I like "…" marks. I use them a lot._


	14. Chopin and Other Surprises

**Chapter Fourteen: Chopin and Other Surprises**

The next morning, Christine found that her appetite had returned. Although she still felt the guilt of Rutherby's death weighing on her, what Mr. Holmes had said to her had considerably lightened the burden.

"Holmes is out buying a paper, though I thought he'd be back by now," Watson said when she entered the consulting room. "Would you care for some tea?"

"Please. Thank you."

"Certainly. Oh, sounds like he's returned," Watson said, hearing footsteps on the stair.

Sure enough, the well-dressed form of Mr. Holmes entered the room a moment later and handed Watson the newspaper. "You'll be pleased to see that Jones heeded my advice and did not publish anything about last night. As glad as I was that he was contacted by the neighbors last night, I did not want any word of his arrest getting out."

"Did they catch Cunningham and Moore?" Watson asked.

Holmes shook his head. "We'll have to keep on our toes now that they know we're helping you Miss Andrews, but I doubt they'll try anything so soon."

"Have the police made an effort to contact Beaufort?"

"I'm certain they have."

Christine's mind flew back to the dead bodies, and she involuntarily closed her eyes, trying to push the image away.

Holmes sat down to next Miss Andrews and took the teapot. At her distressed expression, he decided to change the subject. "How would you like to attend a concert, Miss Andrews?" he asked, pouring a cup.

Her eyes opened and she looked at him. "A concert? I'd love to, Mr. Holmes."

"Who's playing?" Watson asked, looking up from the paper.

"Sir Charles Hallé."

"Really! He's no longer composing, then?"

"By demand of the public, he's performing tonight at St. James' Hall."

"Do you know what he'll be playing?"

"His favourite pieces, from what I've heard. What do you say, Watson?"

"By all means!"

"Good." Holmes pulled out three tickets from his breast pocket and slapped them down on the table. "The concert begins at five thirty."

- - -

Christine peered at herself in the hand mirror, plucking at the curls near her ears. She was clothed in a pretty pink dress and was wearing her locket about her neck; a pair of white opera gloves lay on the dresser near her. She should probably be feeling happier right now. She was going to an actual Victorian concert at St. James' Hall with two men she had admired for years on end.

But the more she thought about being happy, the less she was. She'd killed a man last night. Yes, it had been in the defense of another, but it didn't change the fact that she'd done it.

And all those bodies….

She sank onto the bed and held her face in her hands. _Oh Jason, what have you done? How could you do that to those people? What did they ever do to you? _She wondered how the future might be changed now. The descendants of those servants would never be born. They would never exist, now. What if they had been people she knew? What if they were friends of hers? She couldn't imagine what it might be like to remember someone that, to everyone else, had never existed.

A knock came at her door, and she sat bolt upright. "Yes?"

"Are you ready, Miss Andrews? We don't want to be late."

"Coming, doctor."

She snatched her gloves off of the dresser and opened the door.

"Are you well, Miss Andrews?" Watson asked at the expression on her face. She looked troubled, and rather sickly.

The peaky appearance vanished as she flashed him a smile, trying to forget her bad thoughts. "I'm fine. Shall we be off?"

"Do lets." The doctor smiled at her and gestured for her to go ahead of him.

"The cab is waiting!" Holmes' voice rose from beneath them.

"Coming!" Christine called.

"Have a good time." Mrs. Hudson patted her shoulder on her way out the door. "You're young. You should enjoy yourself."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson." Christine smiled at the kindly landlady as she climbed into the cab.

"It's only a short ride," Holmes told her as the cab began to roll down the street. "I hope you enjoy the concert."

"I'm sure I will. Thank you for taking me with you, Mr. Holmes."

"My pleasure." The detective responded with a smile. But the smile quickly disappeared, to be replaced with what Christine thought looked like a blush, and he looked away.

Christine also looked away, but kept looking at him from time to time out of the corner of her eye. '_My pleasure.'_ _Did he _really _mean that? Is he really pleased to be able to take me to a concert? Is he pleased to be in my company? He…he was very gentle yesterday, and it was thoughtful of him to seek me out and encourage me last night. And he tried to prevent me from seeing those…those people…._ Her thoughts once more swam back to the Beaufort Mansion, to that horrible, bloody room. But as she tried to clear her mind, the horrific image was replaced by the memory of the detective holding her against him, protective and comforting. _He was so strong…I felt so secure and safe in his arms…._ She felt her face grow suddenly hot, and quickly attempted to distract her thoughts by staring out the window.

Watson, although not blessed with the almost-supernatural deductive powers of his friend, could plainly see that something was up between Holmes and Miss Andrews. He said nothing, but smiled very softly to himself. For Holmes to have a lady would be strange indeed, but welcome. In his opinion, it was about time.

It did cross his mind for a moment that maybe it _wasn't_ a good thing for Holmes and Miss Andrews to be attracted to one another, she being from the future and bound to return to her own world sooner or later, but he was glad just the same. _Better to have loved and lost…_ he thought, and settled himself against the cab seat.

Within a few minutes, they had reached their destination.

As Mr. Holmes helped Christine out of the hansom, he offered his arm to her.

This took her aback for a moment; Dr. Watson was always the one to help her down from the carriage, or to open the door for her. But she gladly put his arm in his and the three of them made their way inside.

Christine was surprised and delighted to find that Mr. Holmes had secured a box for them. The theatre was very full; the entire place fairly hummed with the noise of chatter, waving fans and laughter.

"Ha, look. It's Lestrade." Watson pointed below them.

Holmes leaned forward to see, and Christine followed the doctor's finger, smiling in spite of herself. Though the inspector was more formally dressed than last she had seen him, there was no mistaking his form. He sat with his dark eyes staring straight ahead, his hands folded across his chest, anticipating the performance.

As she took her gaze away from the inspector, she noticed ushers going around and dimming the gas lamps; the concert was about to begin.

"Looks like we just made it," Watson whispered, settling back in his chair.

Holmes nodded in response, and just as he did so, lights blazed to life on stage and everyone began to clap.

An elderly, distinguished looking gentleman with a receding hairline that Christine could only assume was Sir Charles Hallé walked out on stage and bowed to the audience. He bowed twice more, and then without a word, settled himself at the piano and began to play.

The first piece was something by Beethoven; it was a song Christine had heard countless times but couldn't recall the name of. She thought she'd never heard clearer notes played on the instrument. Her father had played the piano, but even he, with all his talents, hadn't played so meticulously. As sharp and crisp as the notes were, however, Christine could feel a depth and warmth behind them, and it was a joy to her ears.

All too soon it came to an end, and she clapped enthusiastically, anxious to hear the next selection.

This time it was something by Mozart. During this cheery tune, Christine glanced at Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson.

The doctor seemed very content, leaning back in his chair with one leg crossed over his knee, his head bobbling every so slightly to the rhythm of the piece.

The detective had a distant sort of look on his face, but it was a pleasant look. He seemed to be entirely lost in the music; Christine found this quite fascinating and very much of a change from his usual vigor and feverish intensity. After a moment she looked back at the stage and let the music enwrap her, quite at ease in her seat next to Mr. Holmes.

Sir Charles Hallé played a varied selection of music, from Bach to Schubert, and the time flew by -- Christine was surprised when he stood in front of the audience and announced that he would play one more piece before intermission, after which his wife, Lady Hallé, would join him.

He sat down at the piano, and the first chords sounded, firm and solid in their minor key. The same chords were played a second time, but softer to the ears. And then, as the gentle steady rhythm played in the base, higher notes drifted above them.

It didn't take long for Christine to recognize it as the Nocturne in C-sharp Minor by Chopin. Her father used to play it, frequently. It was one of his favourites. She remembered, when she was younger, lying awake in bed and listening to the mellow notes of the piano drifting up the stairs to lull her to sleep.

Holmes was reclined easily in his chair, eyes half-shut. There was nothing like a quiet night at the theatre. As the piano made a tinkling run up and down the scale, he looked at Watson. The doctor was in a similar manner as himself, very relaxed and comfortable. He then turned his eyes upon Miss Andrews, and his mouth parted in surprise.

A curious mixture of quiet happiness and the deepest regret lay upon her face. Tears brimmed at the corners of her eyes.

He watched her for a few moments, unsure if he should say something to her. But as one of the tears trailed down her cheek, shining in the gaslight, he subtly drew his handkerchief from his pocket.

Christine felt the tear escape her eye, but didn't brush it away. She didn't want to attract Mr. Holmes or Dr. Watson's attention. She had tried her hardest not to let the music overcome her, but to no avail. It was so beautiful and reminded her so much of her late father that she could not help but let the tears fall.

As the song entered its more light-hearted, major chord bridge, she felt a hand brush against hers. She looked in surprise at Mr. Holmes next to her, and saw at his downcast eyes that his hand held a handkerchief.

She looked down in embarrassment, but when the detective left the handkerchief in her hand, she took it and dabbed at her eyes.

The Nocturne circled back round to repeat its steady base and higher minor-chord trills and finally concluded with redeeming set of hushed major chords.

The audience applauded, and intermission was announced. Dr. Watson excused himself, leaving Christine alone with Mr. Holmes.

After a few awkward, silent moments, she handed the detective back his handkerchief. "Thank you," she whispered.

He took it back, nodding. "Forgive me, Miss Andrews. I did not know you would be so affected."

"No, please don't be sorry," Christine said urgently, shaking her head. "It's just that…Chopin was one of my father's favourites. He played piano, you know. He…he was very talented."

Holmes nodded.

"Thank you very much for bringing me here tonight," Christine said quietly.

"I was very glad to do so," he replied, and Christine looked up at him. She'd never really realized how beautiful his eyes were. They were the handsomest, most striking shade of grey she'd ever seen. She stared into them, and though a voice at the back of her brain was positively screaming at her to not do so -- it was rude -- she couldn't help it.

Holmes likewise couldn't bring himself to look away from her. She had grey eyes as well; he'd noticed the first day they'd met her; but they were so unlike his own; they were so cool, with an entrancing bluish tint. _She is lovely_, he found himself thinking. The thought took him by surprise, and he was rather grateful when Watson suddenly came into the box, followed by Inspector Lestrade.

"Lestrade." Holmes said, getting up from his chair.

"Hello, Mr. Holmes. Oh. Good evening." Lestrade noticed Christine, and bowed his head in greeting.

"This is Miss Andrews," Holmes said, gesturing to her. "Miss Andrews, Inspector Lestrade.

"A pleasure," Lestrade said, smiling.

"Nice to meet you, Inspector," Christine returned, shaking his hand.

As he let go of her hand, he looked at her curiously. "I beg your pardon. Have we met before?"

It was a struggle for her not to smile. The last time he'd seen her, she'd been an Irishman with a black eye. "No, I don't believe so, sir."

"You must remind me of someone else." Lestrade smiled widely. "How are you enjoying the concert, Mr. Holmes? Fancy seeing you here."

As the inspector conversed with the detective, Christine exchanged glances with Dr. Watson, who knowingly smiled at the Lestrade's confusion.

Soon the ushers came to turn down the gaslight once more, and Lestrade said goodbye to them as he returned to his seat.

As he came on stage, Sir Charles Hallé was accompanied by an elegant looking woman with dark curly hair, who was carrying a violin. He introduced her as Lady Hallé, and she bowed to the audience, after which she and her husband played duets for piano and violin. She had a very sweet sound, and Christine remembered that she'd read somewhere that she had once been given the title "Violinist to the Queen."

Lady Hallé and her husband complemented each other marvelously, and it was all too soon that they ended the concert with a cheerful piece by Mendelssohn.

Everyone in the hall applauded long and loud for them both, but gradually the threatre began to empty, and Christine, Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson made their way outside. Because it was oddly warm for a March night, and due to the difficulty of getting a cab in such a crowd, the three of them decided to walk the short distance back to Baker Street.

"Did you enjoy the performance, Miss Andrews?" Watson asked.

"Yes, thank you doctor. And you?"

"Very much. Seeing Charles Hallé is always a grand thing. And it was a pleasure to see Lady Hallé there, too."

"An excellent violinist," Holmes remarked. "Did you see her pizzicato?" The detective made a movement in the air with his fingers as if plucking violin strings. He continued to do this as they turned the street corner.

"I daresay you'll have to try and reproduce it?" Watson asked with a hint of tiredness in his voice.

"You're not against my violin playing, are you Watson?" Holmes asked him, a snarky sort of smile appearing on his face.

"No, Holmes, it's just that –"

Christine stopped listening, for she suddenly realized that she didn't have both of her gloves. She'd removed them while exiting the theatre, for she was too hot. She must have dropped one of them. "I think I dropped one of my gloves," she said, and all three of them stopped. She looked over her shoulder. There it was, lying on the pavement at the corner. "Oh, there it is. Sorry, I'll be right back."

As she went to retrieve it, Watson and Holmes went on with their discussion.

"…that's not what I'm saying Holmes, and you know it isn't. It's just that when you keep playing the same thing over and over – especially when I'm trying to write, it's…it becomes difficult."

Holmes grinned at his companion, nodding. "I understand, Watson."

Watson chuckled. He knew Holmes was just needling him for the fun of it. "No hard feelings then."

"Not at all."

"Oh – where did she go?" The doctor said suddenly.

Holmes whirled on his heel. Miss Andrews had gone to the corner to recover her glove, but she was no where in sight. "Miss Andrews?" he called.

There was no answer.

"Miss Andrews?" he called more loudly. Again there was no response, and he began to walk toward the corner, his pace growing quicker with every step. _Nothing's happened,_ he told himself. _She's only dropped her glove and isn't paying attention to my voice. _But fear clutched at his heart, and as he reached the corner, there was no one to be seen.

"Miss—"

"_Holmes!"_ He felt Watson yank him back out of the street as two carriages came racing out of nowhere into his path.

"Mr. Holmes! Doctor—" They heard the woman's muffled cries, but they were cut short.

"_Miss Andrews!"_ Holmes shouted. He and Watson leapt from the pavement where they had tumbled and ran after the two cabs.

To their utter dismay, one cab shot down the street, but the other careened around the next corner.

"Which one do we follow?" Watson cried.

Holmes' eyes flashed from the first cab to the second. In less than a moment, he'd decided and dashed around the corner.

"What about the other one?" Watson asked, putting on speed to catch up with Holmes.

"The other cab wasn't weighed down enough – the cab was riding too high on its wheels to have more than one person in it!"

As they trailed the cab that was growing further and further away every second, Watson could tell that his friend was memorizing every inch of the vehicle, seeing things which were invisible to him.

As the cab finally vanished out of sight behind another corner, Holmes came to a halt.

"Why are you stopping? We have to catch them!"

"I know where they're going, Watson. But we're not armed. You have to fetch the police."

"That will take too—what do you mean, "you"? I'm not leaving you to take on those villains yourself, Holmes!"

"We don't have time to argue the matter!" Holmes said harshly. At the slight hurt in the doctor's eyes, his voice softened. "Please. Fetch Lestrade. He lives at 14 Vere Street. He knows where officers are stationed during the evening. Bring them to Whaley's warehouse on Devonshire. That's where we'll be. I'll do my best to hold them until then." He gripped his cane meaningly. Watson wasn't happy about the arrangements, Holmes could tell. But he wasn't about to put his friend's life in danger again.

"Fine," Watson said finally. "But you'd better be careful, old man." Watson clapped him on the shoulder and started running in the opposite direction, toward Vere Street.

Holmes took off running as well, towards Devonshire Street, where the warehouse stood. _I'm coming, Miss Andrews._

* * *

_**A/N**__ Aww snap! Another cliffhanger. I wasn't going to end this chapter with a cliffhanger, but the chapter was getting too long so I had to make it into two chapters instead._

_Looks like things are heating up a little with Christine and Holmes, eh? And Watson knows ;) Holmes might be rather oblivious in this respect, but the doctor isn't!_

_And Lestrade. I love Lestrade and had to bring him back, however small the appearance._

_**Holmes' eyes:**__ Yeah, I know I said in an earlier chapter that they were green (in reference to the Granada series) but I decided I probably shouldn't change the canon so I changed them back to grey._

_**Do Lets: **__A phrase often used by Lucy Pevensie in the great C.S. Lewis' Narnian Chronicles._

_**Charles and Lady **__**Hallé**__**:**__ Charles actually died in 1895, the year my story takes place. But he didn't die until October, so I thought I'd be safe with having him perform. I chose him because he was quite well known, and also because this is sort of a shout-out to Lady Halle from the forums, one of my many friends there._

_Speaking of which, I'd like to say a big thank you to all who have been helping me with this story since it began. They're the ones who helped me decide which piece would make Christine cry at the theatre. I'd also like to thank all of YOU guys for reviewing. I can't tell you how exciting it is to find out I have new reviews._

_Please don't hesitate to tell me what you think! I value all input – good and bad!_


	15. A Villain of the Worst Kind

**Chapter Fifteen: A Villain of the Worst Kind**

Christine gasped as the rough sack was torn from her head and bright light hit her eyes.

The first thing that came into focus was the sneering, weasely face of Cunningham, whom she recognized from the Beaufort Mansion. He had a healing cut near his eyebrow that must have been from when she hit him over the head with the vase.

"Hello love," he said, his voice dripping like venom.

"_HELP!"_ she screamed, but a large hand clamped over her mouth.

She looked up to see the hulking form of Moore, who shook his head in warning.

Cunningham came closer to her. "I wouldn't do that if I were you," he said. "You're a very pretty woman, and we wouldn't want to ruin your beauty, now would we." He pulled a knife out of his pocket. "You follow me?"

Christine narrowed her eyes, glaring, but nodded.

"There's a good girl. Let her go, Moore."

Moore took his hand away, and Christine pushed forcefully away from him.

Cunningham, still keeping an eye on her, tucked his knife away and turned to Moore.

Christine's mind raced. Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson were surely following her. Or had they been attacked, and unable to pursue? The thought made her sick, and she pushed it from her mind for the time being. _Okay. Calm down. Where are you, Christine?_ She was standing in a large room filled with crates; there was sawdust sprinkled all over the floor. A couple of dark lanterns lit the room. By their light, Christine could see that there was only one exit out of the room, to the right.

Moore and Cunningham were the only people there. _Where's Jason?_ she wondered. _Why isn't he here? _She was glad, but then again, she knew nothing about these two men. She watched them as they talked, and sized them up. Moore was big. There was no way she could fight him off. But he didn't seem to be the brightest crayon in the box, so there might be a way to outsmart him. Cunningham was more her size – if she got a hold of a piece of wood or one of those dark lanterns, she might have a chance to beat him down. She noticed he was missing the ring finger of his left hand, and wondered how she could have missed that last night. It might be important if he tried to grab something. If she could hold off his right hand, she figured she might be able get a weapon or another object out of his left hand.

"…now you stand outside and keep watch for Lanaghan or Holmes. If it's the latter, you know what to do." Cunningham finished.

Moore nodded and lumbered off, leaving Christine alone with his associate. He turned to her. "Now then. Why don't you take a seat, Miss Andrews?"

"I'll stand," she replied coldly.

Cunningham held up his hands in a defensive position. "All right." He came near her and began to circle her. "Mr. Lanaghan has a machine of yours. He needs to know how it works, and you're going to tell me."

"No I'm not."

"You think you can keep mum, eh? You think you're a strong woman?" he hissed near her ear.

Christine didn't answer. She kept her eyes steady on him as he went around her, and held her mouth clamped shut.

"Just tell me how it works," he said more softly, sitting on a crate before her. "All I'm asking for is a few little words, and I won't hurt you."

He was trying to make his voice sound gentle, but Christine could detect an undercurrent of cruelty and impatience that was barely restrained.

"I'm not going to tell you anything._"_ Christine shot back. The next instant, she gasped as his cold rough hand smacked her hard across the face, causing her stumble. She held a hand to her stinging cheek, glaring at Cunningham through the tears that were beginning to well up. No one had _ever_ hit her like that before, but she wasn't about to start bawling. She was going to stick this out. "I'm not going to tell you _anything,_" she repeated quietly, furious. "No matter what you do, I'm not going to talk."

Cunningham's eyes narrowed, but then slowly widened as a smirk played over his lips. "Well I may not be able to make you _talk_, miss. But I sure as hell can make you _scream._"

Christine's eyes widened and her mouth suddenly went dry. She slowly lowered her hand from her face and began to back away from him. There was a fiery glint in his eyes that frightened her. She'd seen that light before, though not in any situation even remotely like this.

It was _lust_ in his eyes, and it chilled her to the bone.

Cunningham's dark eyes roved over her body for a second, stopping where they would, and he took a step forward.

She took another step away, slowly. "Get away from me." She tried to say it boldly, but her voice trembled. She'd been scared from the moment they'd kidnapped her, scared of Jason and what torturous things he might do to her. But nothing had prepared her for what the man before her was willing to do.

Her eyes darted to the right. If she could only make it to the door, then maybe she'd have a chance of escaping. She looked back at Cunningham.

He ran his tongue along his lower lip, and icy fingers raced down her spine. His fingers were twitching, itching to have her.

"Get away," she warned again.

He only cackled in response. "Come on, love. I'll be gentle!" With that, he lunged for her.

She screamed and ducked under the reach of his arm, racing towards the door. But he was right behind her and grabbed her wrist, pulling her back towards him.

"NOO!" she shrieked. She turned toward him and hit, clawed, punched, slapped, kicked; she did anything to try to keep him away. Her breaths were coming so quick that she was shaking, and despite all her efforts, he still had a good hold on her. He released her momentarily to strike her hard across the face again, and she fell to the ground.

The blow left her dazed, lying face-down in the wood shavings. She whimpered and tried to lift herself up, but felt herself forced back down. Realizing what was about to happen, she began to struggle madly. But it was no use. Cunningham had her pinned.

She vaguely heard the chink of a belt being undone, then felt her skirts being moved around, a cold hand on her leg. And then –

Quick, running footsteps. Yells. The dull impact of fists on flesh. The weight holding her down was now gone. A horrible crushing sound met her ears, then a thud, and silence. She whirled over, gathering up her skirts and struggling to find her footing.

Mr. Holmes stood above the unconscious form of Cunningham, cane poised above him. Blood trickled from a thin cut on his forehead. He raised the walking stick to beat the man again, breathing heavily.

There was a sudden commotion at the exit, and Dr. Watson, Lestrade and a few policemen entered the room.

Christine's head began to swim, and darkness started to rush in from the corners of her vision.

"Holmes!" Watson cried, pointing.

Holmes turned and leapt forward just in time to catch Miss Andrews, who had just fainted. He supported her head with his right hand and looped his other behind her knees, hefting her into his arms. "Watson," he said, still panting from his attack, "Call a cab, quickly!"

He followed Watson through the warehouse and into the street where the doctor flagged down a two-wheeler. "Watson, if you'd stay with Scotland Yard and make sure this man is kept in their custody, I will take Miss Andrews back to Baker Street."

"What shall I charge him with, Holmes? Besides kidnapping?"

"Attempted murder of myself, no doubt..and…." He glanced momentarily at the woman in his arms, his lips tightly pursed. "He also attempted to…to violate Miss Andrews."

Dr. Watson's mouth parted in disbelief and deep furrows creased his forehead. After a moment he nodded and said quietly, "Right, Holmes." He helped Holmes get Miss Andrews into the cab, then handed the detective his walking stick.

"Careful."

"Don't worry, Watson." Holmes said reassuringly. "Thank you for bringing the police so quickly."

Watson nodded, then patted the cab horse to send it on its way.

- - -

Back at Baker Street, Holmes made his way inside the door and seated Miss Andrews on the stair. He then ran into the kitchen and returned with a bottle of whiskey. Mrs. Hudson had left to visit a friend that evening; otherwise, he would have had her fetch the things he needed. He sat himself next to Miss Andrews and tipped the whiskey bottle to her lips.

A moment later she came to, gasping and spluttering. Her trembling hands immediately flew to her skirts, but Holmes caught her arms.

"Miss Andrews, Miss Andrews! It's all right. You're quite safe."

Christine suddenly realized where she was, and threw her arms around the detective.

Startled as he was, he softly repeated, "It's all right," and patted her shoulder. He gently removed her from him, only to see her face covered in tears. He hastily pulled out his handkerchief and gave it to her.

She tried to thank him, but the tears had made such a lump in her throat that she couldn't form the words.

"Try to calm yourself, Miss Andrews," he said gently.

She nodded, her face buried in the handkerchief, and took several deep breaths.

When he thought she had composed herself enough, he stood and held a hand out to her. "Come, let us go up to the consulting room."

She wiped her eyes once more and took his hand.

Once they had reached the consulting room and he had seated her on the sofa, he sat opposite her, in his usual chair. "Now, Miss Andrews. Tell me what happened. Did they find out anything about the machine…?"

Christine shook her head. After she had taken a few more deep breaths, she swallowed and said, "N-no. I…I went back for my glove, and someone grabbed me around the corner," she began. Her eyes lost their focus slightly as she recalled the events. "They covered my mouth and shoved me into a cab – that's when we started moving and I yelled out to you. But they put a cloth bag over my head. I had no idea where we were going…we weren't in the cab for…for very long. When we stopped, someone – someone big, probably Moore carried me out of the cab and inside the building. I heard the carriage roll away…." She stopped for a moment, and looked up at him. "How did you find me? How did you know where I was?"

"Once I had reasoned which cab you were in, Watson and I followed it until it was out of sight. By that time, I had memorized every inch of it – there were wood shavings on its wheels. I knew the only place with wood shavings in the area that used its own cabs was Whaley's warehouse. Please, continue." he prodded.

She nodded, inhaled deeply, and began again. "They took the bag off of my head, and C-Cunningham and Moore talked. They spoke quietly for some time, and I couldn't hear much of what they were saying. I looked around, but there was only one escape route and there's no way I could have made it past them….After they were done, Cun…Cunningham told Moore to wait outside – for you. How did you get past him?"

Holmes gestured to his cane, leaned against the fireplace. "He never heard me coming. I strangled him."

"Did you…?" Christine asked, her eyes widening.

"Kill him? No. To be perfectly honest, I didn't know how long he would stay unconscious, but I was willing to take that chance." He shifted in his chair to face her more directly. "After Cunningham sent Moore outside, what…what did he say to you?"

Christine looked away from him, twisting the handkerchief in her hands. She swallowed a few times before she said, "He tried to get me to tell him how the time machine worked, but I wouldn't. He—he hit me and then…and—and then…then he…."

Holmes watched as her eyes lowered and her face contorted. She buried her face in the handkerchief as she began to cry again in earnest.

She was positively shaking with sobs, and Holmes felt helpless. _No woman should ever have to go through such a nightmare. How could I have let this happen to her? Why did I not keep a closer eye on her? To be exposed to such horror not only yesterday but a far worse one today…._ He sat by her side and very tentatively put him arm around her shoulders; it was the only thing he could think of at the moment to console her.

He tensed slightly as she leaned against him, but realized that she just needed to be held. She was a fiercely independent woman – a strong woman, but even the strongest women could be rendered fragile. He wasn't used to such close contact like this, but she needed comfort and he was willing to provide it. He looped his other arm about her and pulled her nearer to him.

Nestled in the crook of his shoulder, she sobbed against him, but grew quieter with each passing moment. At last she stopped shaking and only slight sniffling sounds came from her. "I'm sorry," he heard her whisper, and he released her.

"Sorry?" he echoed quietly. "My dear Miss Andrews, you have nothing whatsoever to be sorry about."

She drew a shaking breath and nodded, but kept her eyes downcast.

Did she expect him to think less of her because she had cried? He thought nothing of the sort. Quite the contrary – he thought her possibly the bravest woman who had ever entered into his confidence. To hold up against every terror that had come into her path since that first day spoke of tremendous courage. He took her hands in his. "Miss Andrews," he began to say, but he couldn't finish.

He did not often find himself lost for words, but it seemed to be one of those moments. He wanted to say anything and everything he could to soothe her, but his voice seemed to be caught in his throat. She was possibly not only the bravest woman, but the most beautiful – her face, tear streaked as it was, looked lovely to him. And the way she spoke, the way she carried herself; all of her attributes added to his admiration of her.

Before he realized what he was doing, he was leaning toward her.

Christine swallowed, but stayed exactly where she was, ever-so conscious of his firm hold on her hands, how close he was moving towards her…she closed her eyes and felt his breath on her face, so close….

"Holmes!"

Holmes moved as quickly as if he'd sat on a hot iron skillet, releasing her and striding to his place by the fireplace as he heard Watson's voice outside the door.

A fraction of a second later, the door was thrown open and the doctor half-ran in. "Holmes, how is she – oh." He threw off his hat and hurriedly knelt by her, his medical bag in hand. "Miss Andrews, are you all right? Have you been hurt?"

Christine shook her head. "I'm all right, doctor," she replied softly.

"Let me see, nonetheless." He placed his gloved hand gently under her chin and turned her head this way and that, checking her eyes and face for any sign of injury. Her right cheekbone was slightly red, as if someone had slapped her. "Did someone hit you?" He asked quietly.

"Yes," she answered, lowering her eyes, "But I'm all right."

"Let me get a cold compress for that."

She nodded, and while he ran to Holmes' room to fetch a washcloth and cold water from the basin, she stole a glance at the detective.

Holmes saw her looking in his direction, but did his best not to look at her in return. He was furious with himself. What had he nearly done just now? What had just overcome him? "What do you need, Watson?" he asked in an effort to distract himself.

"Nothing, Holmes. I've got it," the doctor replied, emerging again from the room. He folded the cold damp washcloth into a square and held it to Miss Andrews' cheek.

Feelings for Miss Andrews would interfere with his work, his mental processes, Holmes reasoned. He had made the decision, long ago, to allow his mind to govern his heart. He had no desire for that to change.

Did he?

- - -

As the night grew later, Holmes and Watson found themselves in a very quiet room. Miss Andrews sat wrapped in a blanket on the sofa, speaking very little. Mrs. Hudson brought her some tea, at which point Holmes informed the landlady that things had gotten dangerous and that he thought it best for her to leave Baker Street until he contacted her. Mrs. Hudson nodded in understanding and left the room to pack.

After drinking the tea Mrs. Hudson had set before her, Christine found herself quite fatigued. She did not feel like going up to bed at the moment, however, and stuck it out as long as she was able. But at last her eyelids drooped too heavily for her to keep them open, and she fell asleep.

Minutes later, Watson noticed this, and got up from his seat. "Should I wake her?" he whispered, "And take her to her room?"

"No, Watson. Let her sleep here for awhile. God know she needs the rest."

- - -

Christine awoke in a cold, strange place. It was dark; she could barely see anything around her, only dark silhouettes of crates. She shivered. As she raised her arms to hug herself, she realized that she was wearing nothing.

She gasped and curled into a ball, shrinking into the corner of the wall behind her.

"What's the matter, love?"

Fear clenched her heart and she looked around wildly. Cunningham! He was here? But _where?_ She couldn't see him!

"There's no hiding from me."

Tears formed in her eyes, and began to roll down her cheeks as she pressed herself further into the corner. _Go away, go away._

"I'll make you _scream…."_

Movement in the darkness caused her to sob in horror, drawing her knees under her chin, wrapping her arms around them. She tried not to make a sound, but was sobbing so hard that she could not help it.

The movement in the darkness turned into the form of Cunningham, who leered at her, licking his lower lip. He reached for her, and she was so utterly terrified that she couldn't even scream.

"Miss Andrews?"

Her heart raced as she heard the soft voice, and she looked to the right.

Cunningham withdrew his hand and began to back away.

Mr. Holmes materialized out of the shadows, dressed in a long coat and hat, cane in hand. He spotted Cunningham and moved to stand protectively in front of her. He raised his cane, but Cunningham turned and ran, vanishing into the blackness.

Mr. Holmes, satisfied that he was indeed gone, turned to her. He removed his hat, and dropping his cane, shrugged out of his coat. Kneeling, he gently wrapped it around her, and the warmness of it and the smell of tobacco surrounded her. "Miss Andrews," he said softly.

She opened her mouth to speak, but could find no words to say. More tears rolled down her cheeks.

Mr. Holmes' brow furrowed, and he removed his gloves. Raising a hand to her face, he brushed away her tears. He placed a hand on her shoulder. "Miss Andrews."

His hold tightened slightly and he shook her shoulder. "Miss Andrews." His voice was growing louder, but his form was fading away.

"Miss And—"

Christine gasped and sat bolt upright. She blinked in the light of the fireplace, then looked up.

Mr. Holmes was standing above her, his eyes full of concern. "You were having a nightmare, Miss Andrews. Are you quite all right?"

Christine ran a hand through her hair and nodded, letting out a shaking breath. "Yes, I'm all right. Thank you."

Mr. Holmes nodded, and seated himself again.

Christine looked up at the clock on the mantle and saw that it was well after eleven. The only reason Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes were probably still awake was her. She removed the blanket from her and stood.

"Would you like me to escort you to your room, Miss Andrews?" Watson asked gently. "I was just about to head up myself."

"No thank you, doctor. I'll…I'll be all right."

Watson nodded. "Good night, Miss Andrews."

"Good night. Good night, Mr. Holmes."

"Miss Andrews."

Christine crossed the room and made her way out the door, soon followed by Watson.

Holmes remained in his chair. Knowing he wouldn't be able to sleep in his current agitated state, he lit up a cigarette and let his thoughts run their course. He tried to keep his mind on a method of finding Lanaghan, but as the cigarette smoke engulfed him, his thoughts were unwillingly dragged back to the events of earlier that evening.

Moore had gone down without much of a fight. Not even the biggest man could withstand being strangled. After he'd scanned the area for more of Lanaghan's men, he'd gone into the building. He'd made his way through the mazes of boxes and rooms until he heard a scream.

He'd run then, the scream penetrating his very bones. He couldn't forget how worried he'd been at that moment, when the thought how they might hurt her struck him. As he ran, he'd heard another scream and dull, scrambling noises.

He'd found an entrance to another room, and as he turned into the doorway, he'd seen Cunningham. That man -- that _beast_ -- had her pinned to the floor, hard, and was reaching up her skirts.... If Watson and the police had come in any later than they did, they would have found Cunningham dead.

"Holmes?"

Holmes' head snapped up to meet Watson's concerned eyes. "What?"

"You were grinding your teeth, Holmes. Everything all right?"

Holmes nodded.

Watson cast him a doubtful look, but said, "Well, all right." He picked up his book, which he'd forgotten on his chair. "I'm going to bed, Holmes. See you in the morning."

"Good night, Watson."

Long after the doctor left the room, Holmes remained in his chair, thinking about Miss Andrews. _The poor woman...how could I have let her out of my sight? How could I have let such a thing happen to her?_He rubbed his fingers into his eyes and tossed what was left of his cigarette into the fireplace. He could not get the image of her wide-eyed, tear-streaked face out of his mind. _She was so frightened...I should have_killed_him,_ he thought furiously. _I should have --_ His thoughts were broken at the creaking of the door. "Miss Andrews," he said, standing.

She stood in the doorway, a shawl tight around her shoulders. "I thought you might still be awake, Mr. Holmes," she said quietly.

"What can I do for you?"

She shook her head. "Nothing. I...I just...I just wanted to thank you. For rescuing me." Her eyes were downcast, her voice very quiet.

"My dear Miss Andrews," he said softly, striding towards her. "You needn't thank me."

She looked up into his eyes, and his breath seemed to catch in his breast for a moment; her eyes were reflecting the light of the fireplace and seemed to shine. "Yes I do. If he'd....I don't know what I would've...Yes I do. So, thank you, Mr. Holmes." She extended her hand.

He took it and held it for a moment. "…I'm sorry, Miss Andrews."

"No," she said, laying her other hand over his. She shook her head. "No. Don't be. It wasn't any fault of yours, and you rescued me. You have nothing to be sorry about."

_I am just the same,_ he thought as he looked down at her. Suddenly he realized that he was still holding her hand, and also realized that she was still holding his.

They seemed to recognize this at the same time, and withdrew their touch.

"I…I had better get back to bed," Christine said, and Mr. Holmes nodded. She turned from the room. When she reached the stairs, she stopped and looked up into the darkness there. It was childish, she knew, to be afraid of the dark, but she couldn't help it, after what had happened. After a moment of hesitation, she stepped onto the first stair and very slowly began to ascend.

All of a sudden, the area around her became brighter. "Would you like me to escort you to your room, Miss Andrews?" Mr. Holmes' smooth voice came near her ear. She looked He was holding a single candle, and though he was standing on the stair below her, he was still taller than she was.

"Well, I…thank you, yes." She hoped that in the candlelight he wouldn't be able to see her blush.

Sherlock Holmes noticed everything however, and it was hard to miss the color that flooded into her cheeks. But he said nothing, and took her up the two flights of stairs to her room. When they reached her door, he handed her the candle.

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes," she said.

"Not at all," he replied.

The two of them stood there, less than a foot apart in that close and intimate darkness. It took everything Holmes had to restrain himself from embracing her. He clenched his teeth together, and nodded to her. "Good night," he managed.

"Good night," she responded, and the detective turned and vanished away into the shadows of the stairwell.

Christine made sure the fire was bright before she climbed into bed with the candle on the table next to her. The tension between them had just been so apparent that she could have reached out and touched it. Had he nearly kissed her, earlier? She wished very much that he had. More than anything, she wanted him to hold her again. She felt so secure in his arms.

It wasn't long before Christine fell asleep, thinking of him.

* * *

_**A/N**_

_**D:**_

_**Cunningham**__ – I named him after the main villain in Rob Roy (starring Liam Neeson). Cunningham was played by Tim Roth and presented one of the worst villains in all film history (in my opinion)._

_**Chronology**__ – Okay, so I just realized that the day this chapter takes place is St. Patrick's Day, March 17. I should probably have mentioned that, but in reality, it was unimportant to the plot._

_**Whaley**__ – the name is a shout out to one of my all-time favourite webcomics, "The Dreamer" by Lora Innes in which the main character's name is Beatrice Whaley. The majority of the comic takes place during the American Revolution and is a very original and intriguing story that I'd recommend to anyone. See ._


	16. An Irregular Occurrence

**Chapter Sixteen: An Irregular Occurrence**

Miss Andrews was very quiet over the next few days. Not that she ever talked exceedingly, but Holmes was concerned.

Part of him wanted to avoid her. What had nearly happened between them was inexcusable. He'd almost kissed her, and who knows where that kind of passion might have led him. He was ashamed of himself, taking advantage of the poor woman in her vulnerable state, and also for letting his feelings get the better of him.

And yet part of him wished he _would _let his emotions run free. He now often had a desire to take her in his arms, comfort her. He'd never been in a woman's company for so long a period of time, not where he saw her so frequently. He couldn't escape her; she was always there, in the consulting room, on the stair, in the hall…. She was affecting him like no woman had before.

But when he felt desire welling up inside him, he furiously tried to smother the feeling. He told himself to forget her. It would do him no good to be developing feelings for her – there were so many reasons not to – one was their age difference…he was over ten years her senior. And of course the most pressing reason was that she would be returning to the future where she belonged, never to see him again. While this last thought plunged his mind into a rather melancholy state, he told himself it was for the best that he not be involved with her.

Though he was firm in his resolve not to approach her with romantic intentions, he made sure he was never alone with her, and if he had to be, he kept his distance.

Christine noticed his rather colder treatment of her in the days following, but said nothing to him and if anything, encouraged it. She was very aware of her own growing feelings, but tried to stifle them. She would be going home any day now, and she knew that long distance relationships never worked out. It was for the best.

But these thoughts, in addition to what had happened in the last few days, kept her unnaturally quiet.

Holmes knew that he had to get her home again as soon as possible; primarily for her safety, but for his own sake as well. He began to devote every instant to thinking of ways to find Lanaghan. He went out every day, at different hours, to pursue leads. He went one day to the police station, where he asked Lestrade if Cunningham had told them anything. He did not wish to see the man himself, for he feared he might kill him if given even a moment alone with him; his anger flared every time he thought of what had nearly happened to Miss Andrews.

Three days after Miss Andrews had been rescued, Watson began to worry about his friend. He knew Holmes well enough to know that the detective barely ate or slept during times like this, but this was extreme even for him. He was doggedly pursuing anything and everything he could think of to lead him to Lanaghan, and it was beginning to show. He looked more gaunt than usual, smoked more than usual, and barely slept.

On the fourth morning, Watson put his foot down. He insisted that Holmes would never be able to find Lanaghan without any energy left and sent him to bed. Though he objected loudly and profusely, Holmes finally did sleep, and for hours on end.

"He's exhausted himself," Watson said to Miss Andrews, pouring her a cup of tea at breakfast.

"I know. He's working so hard to find Lanaghan and the time machine." Christine gazed at the detective's closed bedroom door from her place at the table.

Watson couldn't miss the sad undertone of her voice. "Are you all right, Miss Andrews?"

She began to nod, but instead shook her head. "I'm so sorry," she whispered.

"Whatever for?" Watson asked in surprise, setting down the teapot.

"Everything," she answered. "If I hadn't brought Lanaghan here, none of this would have happened." She took a sip of tea, but felt tears welling in her eyes and had to put the cup down before she choked.

"My dear, dear Miss Andrews," Watson said, taking her hands.

She bit her lip and lowered her head, her curls falling around her face.

"Please don't cry." Watson said softly, taking the seat next to her and scooting it closer. "It's no fault of yours that there are such people in the world. The only one to blame is Lanaghan, and Holmes is on the brink of finding him, I'm sure he is." He let go of her hands and pulled her into a one-armed embrace. "Everything is going to be all right. Holmes will figure this out." He gently patted her back. "He always does."

- - -

An hour after luncheon, Holmes emerged from his bedroom, cleaned, dressed and as bright as a newly lit pipe.

"Now, don't you feel better?" Watson asked pointedly.

Holmes nodded once and set upon the newspaper, looking through the advertisements on the off chance there would be a clue there. He saw Miss Andrews looking his way, and noted how tired and sad she looked. He cleared his throat and opened the newspaper wider so he wouldn't have to see her face – it hurt him to see her like that. "Blast," he muttered, throwing the paper down. "Nothing." He looked out the window. "I'm going—"

Just then, the doorbell rang. Holmes turned on his heel to look out the doorway.

"Who can that be?" Watson asked, rising from his chair. "A client?"

"It looks like one of your Irregulars," Miss Andrews said, peering out the window.

In two strides he was at her side, following her gaze to the street below. He saw a boy there, but could not tell from this angle which one it was. A few more strides and he was out the door.

Holmes threw open the front door, expecting to see Wiggins or Gibson, but instead saw a boy he did not know.

"Hullo, guv'nor!" the urchin said, coming inside.

"I don't recognize you." Holmes said, raising an eyebrow.

"Wiggins sent me, sir!" the boy promptly replied, peering up with his dirty face. "Name's Turner. We think we found that man you've been lookin' for!"

"Which man?" Holmes asked, hushed.

"That man what with the red hair and cold eyes."

"Lanaghan?"

"That's 'im, sir." The boy said eagerly, nodding.

"Where?"

"I can show you, sir – there's lots a' alleyways and the like."

"Are you prepared to show me now?"

"Whenever you're ready, guv'nor!"

"Wait here one moment," Holmes said, and ran back up to the consulting room.

"Where are you going?" Watson asked.

"They think they know where Lanaghan is."

"Who does?"

"Wiggins and his boys." He grabbed a walking stick from behind his desk and his coat off the back of his chair. "How far is it?" he called down the stairs.

"Not too far, sir!" came the reply.

"Good," Holmes murmured, taking his hat off the stand. He put it on his head and turned for the door.

"Holmes, you shouldn't go alone—"

"I won't engage him, Watson. I'll return shortly – I only want to see where he's hiding." Holmes nodded at the doctor, then disappeared out of the room.

"Mr. Holmes," he heard Miss Andrews call as he was halfway down the stairs. "Mr. Holmes!"

He turned.

She stopped abruptly before him. "Please," she said, her eyes frightened and pleading. "Be careful." She softly touched his hand that lay on the rail.

His heart tightened at her touch, but he swallowed, and managed to nod. "I will." He hesitantly removed his hand from underneath hers and continued down the stairs. He didn't look back, and locked the door behind him.

Christine stared at the closed door for a full minute before returning to the consulting room.

- - -

The boy was walking at a fast clip, but Holmes followed steadily. It was strange that Wiggins hadn't come himself, but he dismissed the fact. He was just a boy.

Holmes glanced quickly at his surroundings. He was quite a ways from Baker Street now; they were heading deeper into London, away from the Thames where he thought Lanaghan might try to set up his new hideaway.

He followed the young form steadily, always keeping an eye on the boy's back.

"How much farther?" Holmes asked.

"Not much, sir," the boy called over his shoulder.

_He must be hiding in one of these opium dens or brothels,_ Holmes thought. _A disgusting place for a disgusting man._

As they turned a corner, the boy suddenly bolted.

"Hey!" Holmes cried. He sped after the child for a few moments, until it hit him like an anvil that he'd been tricked. The little urchin had been leading him away from home this whole time. He _wasn't_ one of Wiggins' boys, and he'd been duped into leaving Watson and Miss Andrews alone!

"NO!" he snarled, and with all the energy and speed he could muster, ran for Baker Street.

- - -

Watson made his way up the stairs, carrying a tray of scones Mrs. Hudson had left in the pantry for them. As he reached the landing, he heard the clicking noise of the door handle being jiggled.

"Back already?" Watson said to himself, turning. The door didn't open, but the knob kept moving. "Wait a moment…." Watson's brow furrowed. _Holmes never forgets his key. _"Oh no." Watson dropped the tray and climbed the stairs as fast as he was able. "Miss Andrews!"

She jumped upon his entrance.

"Miss Andrews, we have to get upstairs—"

Suddenly there was a horrible splintering, crashing noise.

"Now!" Watson took hold of her arm and all but dragged her up to the next level. As they ascended they could hear voices.

"Close the door. Hurry, up the stairs."

"Jason!" Christine whispered frantically.

"Ssh." Watson took her hands. "Go up to your room, and go out the window. Make your way to Scotland Yard."

"What about you?"

"I'll hold them off."

"No, I'm not going to leave you here!" Tears started to roll down her cheeks.

"Yes you are!" Watson said. "You must!"

They heard fast footsteps on the stair just below, and he pushed her towards the next stairwell. "Go!"

She hugged the doctor fiercely and gathered up her skirts, running up the stairs.

Watson shut the door behind her and dashed for his bedroom. He fumbled with the drawer that held his revolver. Just as he was pulling it out, a noise at the door caused him to whirl.

"Not so fast, _doctor!"_

- - -

Holmes stood in shock at the base of the stairs leading up to 221B. From this distance he could tell that the lock had been forced. He held his walking stick tightly and used it to push open the door.

"Watson?" he cried, fumbling for the stand near the door. He kept a spare revolver there in case of emergencies. He cocked it and started up the stairs. A tray of scones, trampled into crumbs, lay on the landing. "Watson? Miss Andrews?" He darted into the consulting room, but no one was there, nor in his bedroom.

He was aware that his hand was shaking as he went up the second flight of stairs. He was aware that this could potentially be an ambush, and ascended the stairs cautiously. When he reached the top, his eyes widened and his gun all but fell from his grasp. _"Watson!"_

* * *

**A/N**

Oh man, things seem to be heating up between Christine and our dear detective. And he's doing all he can to help her. But it doesn't seem to be quite enough!

**Turner**: _Named after the word "turncoat", a synonym for "traitor."_

Yes, I have fun naming things.


	17. Kidnapped

**Chapter Seventeen: Kidnapped**

The doctor lay sprawled on the floor, bleeding from a head wound.

"Lord, please no." Holmes whispered. He dropped to his knees and firmly pressed his fingers against Watson's wrist, fearing the very worst.

No words could describe his relief when he felt the doctor's strong pulse beating under his fingertips. "Watson? Watson?" He shook his friend's shoulder.

A small groan escaped the doctor, and he slowly raised a hand to his head. His eyes fluttered open. "Holmes?" he asked weakly.

"I'm here, Watson."

The doctor felt his friend's hand shaking against his shoulder and grasped it. "Holmes, they took her. Lanaghan has her. We have to stop—"

"Stay where you are," Holmes ordered as Watson started to get up. He went into the doctor's room and dampened a cloth, nearly breaking the pitcher in his haste to pour fresh water into the basin.

Watson had never seen Holmes so angry. He was used to his friend's minor outbursts of frustration, but they were nothing in comparison to this. He was positively livid. His mouth remained in a tight, white line, his eyebrows so fiercely angled that they produced deep furrows in his forehead. And his eyes were dark and more resembled cold flint than human eyes. He remained this way while he helped Watson dress his forehead wound, and though he was in pain, Watson was grateful for the preoccupation. Otherwise, he feared that Holmes might be throwing things about the room.

"All right, Holmes, that will do." With his wound cleaned and dressed – it was not nearly as deep was Holmes had first feared – and some brandy in him, Watson felt much better.

"Stay seated, Watson," Holmes said peevishly as the doctor began to stand. "I cannot _believe_ I let myself fall into that trap!" he growled. "And now who knows where he might have taken her?"

"Calm yourself, Holmes,' Watson said tentatively. "They must have left some clue. They were in a terrible hurry."

Holmes flashed an impatient and annoyed glance at the doctor, but the look was immediately replaced by one of guilt and regret. He turned away and forced himself to take a long steady breath. _Pull yourself together, man. You can – you WILL find her. If it's the last thing I ever do, Miss Andrews, I will find you. _He closed his eyes momentarily as if in meditation, then snapped them open again and dashed into the hall.

Despite Holmes' previous protest, Watson rose form his place on his bed and went to stand in the doorway, where he found the detective flat on his belly, scrutinizing the floor. He crawled along the carpet until he reached the stair, where he whipped out the ever-present magnifying glass out of his pocket and peered at something there.

"Do you have a pocket knife, Watson?" he called.

Watson went to his bedside table and opened the drawer there to retrieve a knife. He hurriedly brought it back and put it in Holmes' outstretched hand.

The detective carefully scraped it along the edge of the stair and held it up for inspection. "Mud." He stuffed his magnifying glass back into his coat and ran down the stairs, into the consulting room.

Watson followed, and found Holmes at his chemistry set, furiously pouring chemicals into vials.

Holmes wished to heaven that the process was faster, but too much or too little of one chemical could leave him with the wrong conclusion – and with Miss Andrews' very life at stake, it was a chance he couldn't take. He mixed the solution very carefully, waiting for a slight precipitate to form, then added another chemical that turned the concoction colourless. He then held up the knife with the mud, and prepared to tip some of it into the vial. "Blue. Turn blue," he murmured.

Watson found himself holding his breath, his eyes fixed on Holmes.

Holmes' eyes were as intense as the doctor had ever seen them, wide and dark and piercing. He put the mud into the vial, where it sank to the bottom. _Please. Turn blue._ The mud quickly began to dissolve. _I must find her. I can't let him hurt her._ "HA!" Holmes cried triumphantly. The solution of the vial had turned a striking blue colour.

"What does it mean, Holmes?"

"It means that the mud is saturated with the fumes of coal – coal used particularly on steamships. They're at the docks along the Thames!" He set the vial down and ran into his bedroom. When he returned, he was carrying his other larger revolver and one of his heaviest walking sticks.

"You know where they are?"

"It is a simple matter of deduction," Holmes said, retrieving a box of ammunition from his desk drawer. "They must be in a space large enough to accommodate them, but due to their recent move and need of the ability to evacuate quickly, they will not be in a house. Nor will they be in a place currently operating a business. Which leaves abandoned warehouses. There was a fair amount of clay in that mud, which means they are down river, contrary to my first suspicion that they would be further up the Thames. I know of only two warehouses that are abandoned at the present time." He scrambled for a pen and sheet of paper, upon which he scrawled something Watson couldn't see. "I need you to deliver this to Scotland Yard as fast as you are able, Watson."

"What?" the doctor exclaimed. "You're not going alone, Holmes."

"Watson, we don't—"

"I'm very fit to –"

"In your condition, you can't—"

"_Holmes!"_

The detective fell instantly silent. Watson never shouted at him.

"Holmes," Watson snapped, "Are you a doctor?"

"I hardly think that's—" he began quietly.

"Are you a doctor?" he repeated.

"No." he answered stiffly.

"No, you're not. I'm the doctor here, and I say I'm fit to go with you." He grabbed his hat and coat. "And you're not going to stop me."

- - -

Christine struggled against the bonds that held her wrists behind her back as she was lifted out of the cab. She stumbled when she was set down; she was blindfolded and could see nothing.

"Get moving," a gruff voice she did not recognize said, pushing her forward.

"Not so rough," she heard Jason snap.

"Yes, Mr. Lanaghan."

She felt a hand on her arm. "This way, Christine."

She yanked out of his grasp. _"Don't touch me."_ She yelped as he took her arm again, very tightly and guided her forward. They walked for a few minutes, turning so often that Christine lost all sense of direction.

They stopped in a room that smelled of hay, and she was forced to sit in a chair.

"Get that rope," Jason ordered.

Christine tried to get out of the chair but was forced back down by a pair of strong hands. She soon felt rope being tied around her waist and her ankles. While they bound her, she continued to struggle.

"Stop movin'!" said an impatient voice.

She suddenly felt the blindfold torn from her face, and beheld Jason's icy eyes before her own. He took her chin roughly in his hand. "I'd stop struggling, Christine. It won't do you any good." He let go of her then, pushing her face away as he did so.

"You're such a slimy git, Jason," Christine spat.

Jason's eyes flashed and narrowed. "Gag her."

"Don't you touch me! _Get your hands_—mmfh!" She found herself breathing heavily as a handkerchief was tied around her mouth, cutting into the corners.

"Much better," Jason said coolly. He turned away and walked out of the room for a moment.

Christine took the opportunity to look around. There were six other men in the room of varying heights and qualities. There was hay strewn on the floor, and to her right were three horse stalls. The place was empty besides the chair she sat on, a small table holding a lamp and a bag across from her, and a few saddles and bridles that hung on the walls.

Jason returned holding something carefully covered in cloth.

Christine knew exactly what he was holding before he uncovered it. It was the time machine. It looked so strange in its Victorian surroundings, so out of place with its boxy metal frame and gears and buttons.

Jason gently placed it on the table, then turned to her. "Now. Christine. I want –"

"Just a minute, Mister Lanaghan."

Jason's blue eyes flicked to a dark haired brawny man that stood apart from the rest of the men. "What is it, Bartholomew?"

"We've done what ya wanted, now we want to get paid."

"You want to get paid?" Jason echoed quietly.

The man looked around for support, then swallowed and nodded uncertainly.

"Very well." Jason answered, turning towards the table.

"Yeah?"

Nodding, Jason reached into his inside coat pocket, but stopped when he heard a metallic noise. He turned his head to see Bartholomew holding a switch blade.

"No funny business now," the man warned.

"Of course not. I'm just getting the notes." He pulled a few bank notes out of his pocket and held them up. "Come here, how much do I owe you?"

"Fifty pounds," Bartholomew said, putting the knife away and coming closer.

"Five, ten…here's twenty five," Jason said, placing the notes in Bartholomew's hand. He reached into his pocket for more.

The man took them greedily and turned to grin at his comrades.

"And here's the rest of your payment!" Jason hissed.

Christine squeezed her eyes shut as Jason suddenly plunged a scalpel into Bartholomew's chest.

"What…what have ya…ya…done, ya bloody…" the rest of Bartholomew's gasping words dissolved into a sort of gurgle as he fell to the floor, blood flooding from his chest and mouth.

Jason ignored the man's babbling pleas, gathered the bank notes off the floor and retrieved his scalpel.

With a last wheeze of breath, Bartholomew was still.

Jason wiped the scalpel clean with a handkerchief. His cold eyes surveyed the horrified men before him. "Does anyone else want to be paid?"

They silently and vigorously shook their heads.

"You two. Get him out of here."

Reluctantly, two of the men came forward and dragged the body away, leaving a bright red trail behind them.

"You – follow them and keep watch outside." He ordered another one of the men out, leaving only two in the room with them.

"Now then. Christine."

Christine swallowed as best she could with the gag on and opened her eyes.

Jason was leaning against the table, ankles crossed, arms folded as if nothing had happened. "I haven't had much luck getting information out of you. In fact, you've been downright difficult to get a hold of. That detective and the doctor have been keeping an annoyingly close watch on you."

The shock of the murder she'd just witnessed suddenly evaporated as she remembered the sight of Dr. Watson spread out on the floor, bleeding. Her eyes narrowed and something near a growl escaped her throat.

"Now now, Christine. You're in no position to argue with me." He held up his scalpel and examined it. "You haven't told my men a thing, but I'm going to give you one last chance. Will you tell me how the machine works?" His eyes tore away from the scalpel to look at her.

Christine breathed heavily and turned her head away.

"No?" Jason asked. "Hmmm….well, since my men didn't manage to break you with their methods, I suppose we'll have to do this my way." He twirled the scalpel once in his fingers and came towards her.

She backed as far against her chair as she was able. He held her head with one hand and held the scalpel before her eyes. "This is your fault, you know."

She tried to close her eyes, but in her panic they wouldn't do so. The scalpel came closer and closer and came to rest right below her right eyeball. He increased the pressure of the point, making her inhale sharply.

Just as swiftly as he had come upon her, he withdrew the scalpel. "No, this won't do. You'll have to see the time machine to be able to operate it."

Trembling with fear and relief, Christine watched as he placed the scalpel in his pocket and reached for the bag on the table.

"Not your eyes then. How about your hands?" He pulled out a short wooden-handled saw and faced her again. He went behind her chair, and she felt the sharp teeth of the saw pressed against her wrists. He dragged the saw across her skin lightly, but with just enough force to hurt her.

"No, that won't do either; you may need your fingers. Your feet, then?"

Christine shook her head as he bent down at her feet and traced the saw around her ankles, leaving thin cuts.

"No." He wiped the little blood on the saw edge off with his thumb and licked it thoughtfully. "No, I don't want to have to carry you everywhere. And it would be a shame to ruin your pretty face."

"What then, what then…." He murmured. He wiped the saw off with his handkerchief and placed it tenderly back into the bag.

_It's okay Christine,_ she told herself. _Mr. Holmes has surely gotten back to Baker Street by now, and Dr. Watson is fine. He's not dead. He's hurt, but Mr. Holmes helped him and now they're both coming to get you. They're not going to let Jason hurt you. Mr. Holmes is coming to save you. Just hold on. You can take whatever he throws at you. Just stay strong._

Jason rummaged through his bag for a moment, but then closed it and looked about the room.

Christine followed his eyes, roving from the men, to her, to the stalls. They finally came to rest on something behind her, something that, strain as she might, she could not see.

"Untie her. Bind her to that stall door, with her back facing out."

As soon as the rope had freed her from the chair, Christine began to struggle wildly. She didn't like where this was going.

Resist as she might, she was no match for the strong men that held her and tied her wrists to the bars on top of the stable door. She pulled and strained against the knots, but the instant she heard the harsh crack of a whip behind her, she immediately halted in her movements.

- - -

"Can you go any faster?" Holmes called impatiently to the cabbie.

"I'm goin' dangerously as it is, sir!" he answered with equal impatience.

Holmes ground his teeth and lowered himself back onto the seat, next to Watson.

Watson had never seen Holmes so wound up. He was tense as one of his Stradivarius strings, so on edge that his hands kept trembling and his foot incessantly tapped on the floor of the hansom. "We'll make it," he said encouragingly.

"I hope so, Watson," the detective replied. _She'd better be unharmed, Lanaghan,_ he thought heatedly. _If you've hurt her, by God I'll have your head._

Her face, smiling, laughing – beautiful -- suddenly flashed into his mind's eye. Such a brave, courageous woman. Watson had told him that as they dragged her past him, she'd actually fought them off to kneel by his side. Lanaghan himself had pulled her from the doctor and taken her away.

He glanced at Watson. He could see the bandage peeking out from underneath his bowler. As much as he hadn't wanted the doctor to come, he was glad of his friend's company.

"Do you think Wiggins got to Lestrade?" Watson asked, catching his eye.

Holmes nodded. "I'm sure he has. The question remains, are Lestrade and Bradstreet rallying their forces quickly enough?"

The note he had written, originally intended for Watson to take to the Yard, had been given to Wiggins, whom they had fortunately met on the street. They'd taken the boy in a cab to Scotland Yard, explaining what had happened on the way there.

Wiggins had been genuinely distressed and outraged that Turner had posed as one of his boys. He knew of the child, and promised Holmes that he and "his lads" would "take care of it."

They had dropped the boy off at the station with specific instructions to give the note directly to Lestrade and Bradstreet. Holmes had complete confidence in Wiggins and was sure that the two inspectors would soon be leading two teams of policemen to the two abandoned warehouses, respectively.

He and Watson were going only to one of the warehouses, one that had been abandoned more recently and was therefore in better condition. Holmes suspected they would find Miss Andrews there.

A smell of fish wafted to him on the breeze. They were getting close. He spied the street the warehouse was on, and tapped the roof of the hansom with his heavy walking stick. The cab promptly dwindled from its high speed to a complete stop.

Holmes tossed the fare into the cabbie's hand as he jumped out of the hansom, which rolled away quickly after Watson had exited.

They crept along the street, ever watchful of anyone suspicious. But this part of town was rather rundown and deserted. The only living thing they saw where some gulls and once a stray dog that startled them as it ran across their path.

At last they saw the warehouse. It was a sorry looking building; many of its windows were broken and the ones that were not broken were filthy.

Holmes surveyed the area, but saw no one. He gestured to Watson and the two of them began to move toward the building.

As they grew closer, however, a man suddenly rounded the corner, a steel pipe in his hand.

Holmes and Watson hurriedly ducked into the doorway of a closed shop, pressing themselves against the frame.

"All clear, Weston?" someone called.

"Not a soul," the man answered, and they heard his footsteps begin to fade away.

The two of them released a collective sigh of relief and withdrew from their hiding place. They saw the retreating form of whom they assumed was Weston, walking west along the side of the building.

"How many men do you think Lanaghan has?" Watson whispered.

"He can't have more than ten, and I'd be surprised if there were that many. All of his original men were arrested at Beaufort's, save Moore and _Cunningham_, and those two are also now in custody. He wouldn't have time to round up many more men, and the criminals will be lying low after all the arrests that have been made."

"So we know that there are at least two men here," Watson said. "There's probably two more, for each corner of the building, and men inside with Lanaghan, no doubt."

"It is very likely it is as you say."

"What action do we take?"

"What do you propose?"

"I say we split up. We each take two men, and make our way inside." Watson paused at Holmes' apprehensive expression. "We don't really have a choice, Holmes."

The detective pursed his lips and nodded. "Very well. Here comes Weston again." They retreated back into the doorframe. "We'll wait until his back is turned. Go as fast and as quietly as you can. I'll go west and take out Weston, you go south and get the man there. If you should need any help, Watson –"

"I'll be fine, Holmes," Watson said pointedly, pulling his service revolver into view out of his pocket.

"But if you _should_ –"

The doctor nodded. "I'll call out. Same goes for you, old chap."

"All right, his back is turned. Let's go."

As fast and silently as they were able, they ran towards the warehouse. At the same instant, they branched off west and south, heading towards the men.

Watson caught his man off guard, clamping his hand over the man's mouth and hitting him on the back of the head just hard enough to put him out of action. He then took some handcuffs Holmes had gotten from the Yard some time back and secured the man to the lamp post on the corner. He then looked around to make sure he hadn't been spotted or heard, and peeked around the corner. He was in luck – there was no one in sight.

Meanwhile, Holmes hadn't been as fortunate as his friend. Just as he was about to pounce upon Weston, the man turned. He was handy with his pipe, but Holmes had his walking stick and the footwork from his boxing days once again came to his aid. His knowledge of swordplay helped too – it wasn't long before he had Weston's pipe out of his hands and clattering down the street.

It was at this time that two things happened simultaneously – Holmes heard a woman's scream, and another man rounded the corner at the far end of the building.

"Miss Andrews!" Holmes cried, momentarily distracted. And a moment was all it took for Weston to land a solid punch in his jaw, causing him to stumble.

The second man came running, yelling.

- - -

Jason reared back his arm again to let the whip fly, but stopped in mid-motion as a series of yells reached his ears. He turned to the doorway, eyes wild. He whirled to face one of the remaining two men. "See what's going on!"

The man obediently ran off. A moment later, he yelled back, "IT'S HOLMES!"

"Impossible!" Jason whispered. "He can't have--!" He grit his teeth and turned to the other man. He gestured to Christine. "Cut her down!"

The man did so and laid her face down in the hay, where she stay, breathing heavily. Jason, disgusted with the new developments, threw his whip next to her. "Watch her. I'll take care of this." He started to run out, but turned in the doorway. "Touch her, I'll make sure you end up just like Bartholomew. Understand?"

The man gulped and nodded.

Jason whirled on his heel and, after snatching the time machine off of the table, stormed out of the room.

Christine pretended to be unconscious, but she was far from it. Though her back, red, raw and bloody, was in searing pain from the whip lashes, she now had something to drive her. He was here. Mr. Holmes was here to save her.

_But he might be in trouble. I have to get out of here. I don't care what shape I'm in…I have to get out!_ She glanced at the man standing a distance from her; his eyes were fixed on the doorway through which Jason had gone.

Keeping an eye on him the whole time, she slowly stretched out her arm towards the whip.

* * *

_**A/N**_

Because this chapter was 13 pages long, I cut it in two. The next one is up directly! I wouldn't put you in THAT much suspense.

**The chemical reaction – **_Personally, I hate chemistry. I haven't the faintest idea whether the chemical reaction I described even comes remotely close to an actual one. If you have a reaction that better explains the presence of steamboat coal in soil, please point me to it and I shall change my words._

"**Are you a doctor? No you're not." **_-- a line from one of my favourite movies of all time, Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World. _

**Bartholomew – **_As some of you may have guessed, his name is an homage to The Great Mouse Detective. Bartholomew was the unfortunate (drunk) mouse who called Professor Ratigan a rat. "My dear Bartholomew, I'm afraid that you've gone and upset me. You know what happens when someone upsets me."_

**Weston **_-- this name half-popped into my head. Many names just come out of nowhere, but I think this one may have come from the fact that my mother is reading C.S. Lewis' second book in the Space Trilogy, which is entitled _Perelandra._ Weston is a character in the book, and is also in the first book, _Out of the Silent Planet. _I recommend the Space Trilogy – it's a great read. Well, I personally think anything by C.S. Lewis is a great read. :)_


	18. The Turn of the Tide

**Chapter Eighteen: The Turn of the Tide**

Jason wound his way through the warehouse with the time machine under his arm. As he grew closer to the main entrance of the place, he heard scuffling, yells and grunts of pain.

At last he turned the corner and came face to face with three of his men, who instantly stopped in their movements. They shuffled aside to reveal a tall dark-haired man, who was being held by the third man.

Jason gazed down at him in disdain. "Sherlock Holmes, I presume."

The man raised his head to reveal a bloody, bruised face. But his eyes, cold like steel, were unfaltering and locked with his own.

"Or should I say _Monsieur Lemaire,_" Jason continued, bending down towards him. "It was a nasty trick you played, getting me drunk. Luckily I sobered up and in the morning I remembered what I had done." He straightened up again. "So you've come to save Christine, have you? I must admit, I'm impressed you found me." he asked, looking around. "But where are you forces? Don't tell me you've come by yourself." He smirked. "I'm insulted. Or did you bring your friend with you? How _is_ the good doctor?" he asked wryly.

A scowl appeared on the detective's lips, causing Jason to frown. He clenched his fist and prepared to hit him, but Holmes' words caused him to stop.

"You're finished, Lanaghan," he said, his voice raspy as if he'd been hit in the throat. With each word, however, it grew clearer and stronger. "The police are on their way."

"You're bluffing," Jason said, but there was doubt in his voice.

"No. They'll be here shortly. It's all over. You're going to –"

"Shut up!" Jason struck Holmes across the face, hard.

The detective spit out some blood and once again eyed Jason. "Backhanded. So unlike a gentleman."

Jason opened his mouth to snarl in response, but his words stuck in his throat. Holmes' gaze made him nervous. There was something unnatural about the man – something determined, something unwaveringly persistent.

He didn't like it. He backed up a step, away from Holmes, then looked to his men. "Take him into the back room and kill him," he said savagely.

With that, he left the detective with his men and turned back into the warehouse. He had to get back to Christine. He was worried that Holmes had been telling the truth about the police. If they _were_ coming, he had to get the information he needed out of Christine or get out.

- - -

Holmes was thrown onto the floor of a small room, where he smashed against some wooden crates. If they had thrown him any harder, they would have broken his shoulder.

One of the men pulled out a revolver as he struggled to his feet. "You put my cousin away, Mr. Holmes. It'll be a pleasure putting you out of business."

_Is this how it ends? _Holmes thought, eyeing the barrel of the gun as it grew level with his forehead. _I'm sorry, John. Miss Andrews…Christine…forgive me._

Refusing to close his eyes, he readied himself for the impact of the bullet, but instead there came a shout from outside.

"Police! The police are here! Run, lads!"

"Is that Wilcox?" one of the men asked, spinning on his heel.

"He said the police are here!" the second said wildly. "We gotta get outta here!"

"What about Holmes?" the man with the revolver asked doubtfully.

"Forget Holmes! Don't shoot him – the coppers'll hear it!"

Holmes looked from one to the other. The man who had just called out to them from outside was no Wilcox. He knew that voice as well as his own. _Good man, Watson!_

"I'm goin'!" the second man said, and ran from the room.

"Me too!" the other followed, hot on the heels of his comrade.

The man with the revolver turned, calling out the door, "Wait! What about –"

That instant was all Holmes needed. He seized the man's legs and pulled his feet out from under him, causing the man to smash chin-first onto the ground. He quickly stepped on his captor's wrist, causing him to let go of the revolver. He didn't have to do more – the man groaned; that fall had been a quite a blow.

Just to be safe, Holmes seized a rope that had fastened two crates together and used it to tie the man's wrists and then his ankles. Once he was sure the man was securely bound, Holmes ran out of the warehouse. One of the two men lay at the entrance of the warehouse, out cold. A red mark, beginning to bruise, revealed that he'd been punched. Hard.

But Watson was nowhere in sight. Taking in the series of muddy footsteps on the ground before him, Holmes deduced that the doctor must have gone in pursuit of the second man.

- - -

Lanaghan reached the room with the horse stalls, more than ready to whip the information out of Christine. But when he entered the room, he stopped dead in his tracks.

She was gone.

The man that had been watching over her lay in the hay with a whip around his neck.

Lanaghan looked around the room quickly, but there were no hiding spaces for her, especially in her wounded condition.

"_Damn!"_ He had to get out of here now, before the –

"_THIS IS INSPECTOR LESTRADE OF SCOTLAND YARD. WE ARE SURROUNDING THE BUILDING. DON'T MAKE THIS ANY HARDER THAN IT ALREADY IS. COME OUT QUIETLY."_

Jason's eyes widened as the magnified voice of the policeman boomed through the broken windows. They were at the front of the building. There was one side entrance, which they probably had covered by now, but if he could make it to the back entrance, near the dock, he might just make it out of here.

He wrapped the time machine in its cloth, then reached into his bag and pulled out his gun. If they got in his way, there was no argument they could make against a modern handgun. He made sure it was fully loaded as he walked out of the room, then began to half-run towards the back entrance.

Left, right…one more right…one last left and – he heard footsteps, and whipped his gun in front of him.

Watson's breath caught as he found himself at the barrel of Lanaghan's gun.

"Doctor Watson," Jason said a little shakily. "I didn't expect to see you here. Drop your weapon." he ordered.

Watson gritted his teeth and let his revolver drop. "Of course I came. I couldn't let you hurt her."

Jason spotted the door and began to back towards it, never taking his eyes off the doctor. "Oh, I'm afraid it's too late for that."

"What?" It was as if an icy hand had gripped Watson's chest. "What have you done to her?"

"You'll see. Or perhaps not." He pointed the gun directly between the doctor's eyes. "You really have become a problem." He was at the door now; he moved to stand in the frame. "I should have killed you back at Baker Street."

"You would have been dead already."

Jason gasped as the voice met his ears, accompanied simultaneously by the sensation of cold metal against his temple. He heard the click of a revolver.

"Miss Andrews!" Watson cried. "Are you all right?"

Christine let out a shaking breath. "I'll be okay, doctor. Drop it, Jason."

"Clever girl…." Jason began to lower his weapon.

"Nice and slow."

He continued to lower it, but at the last moment, whirled towards her. She bashed her revolver across his face, and he howled in pain. The shot from his gun went off, causing her to cringe at the noise, but she hit the crook of his elbow with the butt of her revolver and sent his own weapon tumbling from his grasp.

She kicked it away and turned her gun on Jason, who had stumbled backwards and now sat on the floor, the time machine clutched in his hands. "Okay, Jason. Put the machine down."

He only glared in response, ignoring the blood trickling from above his eyebrow.

"_NOW!"_

Because of the sunlight at her back and his position in relation to her, Watson couldn't see much of Christine, but he nearly jumped at the ferocity in her voice.

Jason slowly put the machine beside him.

"On your feet."

He rose.

"This is it, Jason. You're finished. Now, where is Mr. Holmes?"

He smiled crookedly and laughed. "Dead."

Her breath caught as if her heart had been pierced. "You're lying."

His smile widened and he shook his head. "I assure you I'm not."

Watson suddenly thought he might be sick. Holmes? Dead? He swallowed. He couldn't go through the death of his friend again. Not again.

"Where is he?" Christine shouted, drawing closer.

Jason's smile faded completely and he snarled, "Your beloved detective is dead, Christine."

"If he is, you will be," she hissed, pressing the pistol against his throat. All of her own pain was forgotten. All she could think about was Mr. Holmes. He couldn't be dead, he just couldn't –

"I've been dead before, Mr. Lanaghan," a clear voice rang out, "and I don't intend on being again so soon."

It took all of Christine's will power to keep her eyes on Jason. "Mr. Holmes," she whispered.

Watson whirled. "Holmes!" he cried.

The detective's hair was mussed, and his face sported several bruises and was smeared with blood. But besides his horrific appearance, Holmes was quite himself – his eyes still held their energetic intensity. He strode over to the unarmed man, and the woman who held him at gunpoint.

At this close distance, Holmes instantly noticed that her dress was stained dark in several places, and that there were streaks of blood on her neck and one near her ear. She was growing quickly pale, and her hands were beginning to shake.

"Here, Miss Andrews, let me take that from you," he said gently, desperately trying not to betray his alarm, and took the revolver from her trembling hands.

Christine gratefully handed it to him. Now that she knew he was safe, now that Jason was in custody, all of the pain came rushing back. Her vision began to blur; at any moment she felt that she would faint.

"Watson, if you'd be so kind as to support her."

"What?" Watson asked, startled. "Oh!" He ran forward and caught Miss Andrews under the arms as she stumbled backward. "Good heavens! Miss Andrews, you're bleeding! Your dress! What….? These lacerations are…" Watson's voice trembled slightly as he sat her down. "Good Lord….Holmes, she's…she's been whipped."

Holmes' face darkened as he heard the doctor's words. He stared Lanaghan down, who, seldom intimidated, once again found himself unnerved at the dangerous fire alight in the detective's eyes.

"Out of all the things I've seen in my career, Mr. Lanaghan, nothing has repulsed me more than you!" he snarled, and with a violent blow with butt of the revolver he held, sent the man reeling to the floor, where he fell, unconscious and bleeding from the new wound.

Watson, though surprised at Holmes' actions, felt little remorse for the man who had caused them so much trouble and pain. If Holmes hadn't struck him, _he _very well might have. He turned his attention back to Miss Andrews, who was now sitting against the door frame, trembling.

"Holmes, we need to get her to a hospital at once!"

"I'll call a cab, Watson!" Holmes gave the revolver to him, and ran out the door. Christine could hear his pattering footsteps on the cobblestone outside, and soon after his voice yelling.

"It's going to be all right, Miss Andrews," Watson said soothingly, patting her hand, but a deep furrow creased his brow. She had lost much blood, and was growing paler every second. "We're going to get you to a hospital."

Holmes suddenly appeared in the doorway, his pale features flushed slightly. "A police car will take us." At his last words, several policemen ran into the room.

"Arrest that man," Holmes said, indicating Lanaghan. "And there are at least five more in the immediate vicinity, if you haven't found them yet."

Before the policemen noticed, Holmes stooped to pick up the time machine and Jasons' gun. He stuck the handgun in his pocket and gave the machine to Watson, who hid it under his coat. He then took off his own coat and wrapped it around Miss Andrews, who he gingerly took up in his arms. She weakly wound her arms around his neck, tight-lipped against the pain.

He and Watson took her out to the waiting police wagon, where Lestrade helped them place Christine inside.

"The nearest hospital, quick as you can!"

* * *

_**A/N**_

Hoo-rah! Jason is under custody! This was a loooong chapter, but I'm finally done with it. Hope Christine makes it to the hospital in time!

**Cursing **_– I don't believe in swearing/cursing. I never do it. The only reason I had Lanagahn (and in an earlier chapter, Rutherby) curse is because that's the kind of character he is. It's only there to add to the development and attitude of the character._

"**Clever girl…" **_– a line from Jurassic Park._


	19. Conclusion

**Chapter Nineteen: Conclusion**

Holmes and Watson waited anxiously at the entrance to the room where Miss Andrews had been taken.

As the detective paced back and forth in agitation, his friend eyed him warily. Holmes had refused any medical attention to his own wounds until Miss Andrews had been seen to. The only treatment he accepted was a handkerchief, which he inconsistently held to the nasty cut near his temple. Every time he passed the doorway he looked through it, keen for any news.

Watson, meanwhile, sat quietly on one of the chairs that had been provided for them, near the door. The police escort that had driven them to the hospital had left them to go back to Scotland Yard; the constable in charge said Inspector Lestrade or Bradstreet would come to see them as soon as either was able to do so.

At last Holmes stopped in his tracks, and Watson rose from his chair.

A doctor with blue eyes and a worn face strode from the room. He extended his hand. "Mr. Holmes? Dr. Watson? I'm Dr. Clarke. I assure you, Miss Andrew is in good hands. The nurses have almost finished cleaning her up. We'll put on the plaster, and once she's stopped bleeding, we can start on the stitches."

"She'll be all right?" Holmes asked quickly.

Dr. Clarke nodded. "She's young. She'll be as good as new in no time."

Watson watched as relief seemed to literally spread over his friend, and turned to the doctor. "Dr. Clarke, may I have some water and some clean bandages? I'd like to see to my friend here."

"Yes, of course. I'll have a nurse bring them immediately."

"Thank you. Come on, Holmes."

Holmes obediently sat down on one of the chairs and took his coat off. A nurse brought a bowl of water, some soap, iodine, cloths and bandages.

The detective sat still, aside from a few twinges, as Watson gently dabbed at, cleaned and bandaged his wounds. "I hope Miss Andrews is faring well," he said quietly as the doctor wrapped his hand.

"I'm sure she's fine, Holmes."

"She may not be when they begin stitching."

Watson paused thoughtfully. "Perhaps…perhaps if we were there with her?"

"Would they allow us?"

"I don't know…Dr. Clarke?" Watson asked as the man suddenly passed.

"Yes, Dr. Watson?"

"Is Miss Andrews awake?"

"Yes, sir."

"Would you please ask her if she could like our company when you start the stitches? Would you allow that?"

Dr. Clarke straightened up and thought for a moment. "It's a little unusual, but I could make an exception; that young woman has been through something horrific….I'll go ask her."

"Thank you."

Holmes turned his head and watched the doorway intently until Dr. Clarke returned a few minutes later.

"She said she would like to have you there, if you are willing. She's stopped bleeding, and we're going to start the stitches in ten minutes."

- - -

Ten minutes later, Holmes and Watson followed a nurse into the room where Miss Andrews was. The room was long and rectangular, with several beds lined at intervals. Some of them were occupied, most were not.

Holmes' entire body tensed as they were led to Miss Andrews' bed. She lay on her stomach, her bare back exposed. The lower half of her dress was still intact, and the rest of her torso was respectfully covered. Four distinct lashes stood out on the skin of her back, burning red against that pearly flesh.

He could barely open his mouth, he was so on edge. But he finally, barely, managed, "Miss Andrews," and she turned her head.

"Mr. Holmes," she said faintly. "Doctor. Are…are you all right?"

"Yes, we're fine." Holmes pulled up a chair and sat close to her.

Her face, drawn, smiled weakly at him, but the smile vanished quickly. "You're hurt!" she said accusingly. "What did Jason do to you?"

"I'm fine," he repeated. "It's only a few bruises."

Her brow furrowed, and she gave him a doubtful look.

"I'm all right. I…I was more concerned for you."

She smiled tiredly. "Thank you."

"Miss Andrews?" Dr. Clarke said, coming up behind Holmes. "We're going to put the stitches in now. Are you ready?"

Christine swallowed, but nodded. "Yes, sir." She moved her gaze back to Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson. "Thank you for coming," she whispered.

"Of course," Watson said, pulling a chair up beside Holmes.

Holmes refused to look at the needle as the doctor grew closer to her back with it. He could only look at Miss Andrews, biting her lip hard, waiting for further pain to begin. Her entire body suddenly grew rigid, and she squeezed her eyes shut. She clutched at the sheets underneath her hand, her grip growing tighter with every pass of the needle.

Holmes could not just sit by any longer and pressed his hand over hers. She gripped his hand tightly, and her eyes flew open to lock with his own. Though they were full of tears, the gratitude he saw in them made his cuts and bruises more than worthwhile.

- - -

. It took over an hour for them to complete the stitches, having to clean the wounds repeatedly as the surgery progressed. After it was done, the two of them were asked to leave while Miss Andrews rested. They lingered at the hospital for a while, until Inspector Bradstreet showed up and informed them that Lanaghan and the rest of the men were behind bars at Scotland Yard.

"What will be his sentence?" Watson asked.

"The noose, surely, after what he's done," Bradstreet replied. "And I can't say I'm one bit sorry. After how many people that man's killed, it's a just reward."

After this, they looked in on Miss Andrews and went to find some dinner. After a quick meal, Holmes insisted that Watson go back to Baker Street to rest; he would stay with Miss Andrews a while longer.

It was nearly ten o' clock that evening when Holmes asked if he might see Miss Andrews.

"She's sleeping right now," Dr. Clarke said, "But you can sit by her for awhile. We're closing at ten thirty; I'm afraid you'll have to leave then."

"I understand." Holmes nodded at him, and quietly went into the room. She was sleeping peacefully, now. He silently sat on the chair beside her bed and watched her. The doctor said that she would heal well; the whip lacerations were not quite as deep as they had originally thought, and with the stitches in place, she was in good shape.

_My dear Miss Andrews, _Holmes thought. _I'm so sorry I wasn't there to stop him. I would give anything to take your pain away._

- - -

Every day following, Holmes, and most times Watson, would visit her at the hospital. Each day she grew stronger, but she still had much mending to do.

Many days, Holmes would stay late into the night until the hospital closed, watching her as she slept. He told Watson he was going walking. He didn't want to his emotions to be revealed to the doctor.

Deep down, he knew he was only causing his attraction to grow stronger, and this would not be welcome in the end. But at the present time, he didn't care. He only wanted to spend every moment he could with her.

It was one night, as Holmes sat by her bedside, that Christine watched him. He thought she was sleeping.

Dr. Watson, in his writings, had once called the detective an automaton, a calculating machine.

He was nothing of the sort. Christine could see, through her mostly-closed eyes that he was terribly concerned for her.

_I still can't believe he found me so quickly. He's saved me again, _she thought. _How many times is it now?_ She was glad that he'd been there to rescue her. She wouldn't rather have anyone else do so….She could remember the strength of his arms as he held her, carrying her as if she weighed no more than a feather. She studied his face, careful not to move as to distract him. He was alone in the room besides the other patients and her, and he thought she was asleep. He was letting emotions show on his face that he usually kept locked away in public.

There was sadness, loneliness and worry in those normally piercing grey eyes.

She wanted very much to embrace him, hold him, tell him that she was just fine and not to worry – he'd saved her and solved the case. _Don't worry about me._ She hated when people worried, but she knew that she herself worried too much. She remembered vividly how her heart had caught in her throat when Jason had told her that Mr. Holmes was dead. She'd been terrified that he was telling the truth. If it hadn't been crucial that she keep Jason at gunpoint and if the detective _had_ in fact been dead, she surely would have broken down weeping. The thought of him dead or even hurt filled her with sudden grief.

All at once it struck her just how dear he was to her. No man apart from her father had ever been so good to her, so courteous, so eager to help and so willing to risk everything for her sake.

Did she love him? More importantly, did _he _love _her_ in return? The thought was like a knife through her heart. Yes he cared about her, but love?

Suddenly a movement from her brought her thoughts back to the present. His eyes roved around the room, as if making sure no one was watching, and then he slowly and very gently placed his hand over hers.

If the bed hadn't been below her, supporting her, Christine surely would have collapsed into a puddle. This simple gesture of affection was enough to make her cry. She _did _love him.

But it would never work. It could never be.

- - -

"Mrs. Hudson!" Holmes bellowed. A couple days after Lanaghan's arrest, he'd sent a note to the country house where the landlady was staying. She'd returned, and seemed relieved to have the housework under her control again. He waited a moment for a response, then again, _"Mrs. Hudson! Have you seen my_—oh. Never mind, _I've found it!"_ He retrieved his top hat from behind a pile of newspapers, dusted it off once, and placed it on his head.

At that moment, Watson came in the door, taking off his hat and coat. "What a dreary day, Holmes. It looks like rain again—"

"Leave your coat and hat, Watson! We're off to the hospital!" Holmes flurried by the doctor and into the hallway; Watson immediately followed.

"We have to make a stop on the way, Watson. I hope you don't mind."

Watson laughed as he re-buttoned his coat. "My dear Holmes, of course not."

- - -

Pardon me!" Christine called. Over a week had passed, and she was now able to sit up and lay on her back. She'd begun to walk again, too – not much, but at least it got her out of bed for a while.

A flustered nurse passing by turned and came over to her bedside. "Yes, Miss Andrews?"

"I was just wondering when I might be able to leave the hospital."

The nurse barely hid her frustration. "When the doctor gives his permission, Miss Andrews. And please don't ask me again." The nurse turned on her heel and bustled away.

Christine sighed. She glanced around for a moment in boredom, then took a book off her bedside table. Dr. Watson had brought it to her…it was a collection of cases Mr. Holmes had undergone before the doctor's time…stories that had never been published.

But before she had read a single paragraph, she heard familiar voices echoing down the hall. She put down the book as another nurse came up to her. "You have visitors, Miss Andrews."

Christine smiled, "Thank you."

Holmes and Watson appeared simultaneously around the corner, to be greeted by a beaming smile.

"Mr. Holmes! Dr. Watson! I'm so glad to see you; I was just wishing I had some company."

They removed their hats and greeted her; Holmes brought a bouquet of flowers, all pinks and purples and whites, from behind his back and handed them to her.

"Mr. Holmes…." she said, taking the bouquet. She buried her face in the flowers and the most pleasing aroma filled her senses. "Thank you. They're beautiful. I love loosestrife."

"I thought you might," he smiled back at her. Then he cleared his throat. "They're from both of us." He said quickly, gesturing to himself and Watson.

The doctor smiled at his friend. For all his apparent aversions to women, he could be very charming. "How are you feeling today, Miss Andrews?" he asked, turning to her.

"Very well, thank you Dr. Watson. Oh, please." She gestured to the chairs near her bedside, and they were seated.

"I'm glad to hear it," Watson said, smiling.

"I can't wait to leave," she said, tilting her head back in exasperation. "I'm so bored here. If it weren't for the book you lent me, I think I'd go mad."

Watson laughed. "I'm glad you've been enjoying it."

Holmes watched Miss Andrews as she talked to Watson, noted how much healthier she looked, sounded; noticed that she barely ever winced – if at all – on account of her wounds. She was clutching the flowers he'd brought her to her chest, just short of crushing them, and she often glanced at them as she talked. On one such instance, she glanced from the flowers to him and blushed, smiling.

"When are you due to be…released?" he asked with a slight smile on his lips.

She laughed, then shook her head. "I'm not sure. I was hoping that perhaps you might be able to put a good word in for me, Dr. Watson?" She smiled hopefully at him.

Watson laughed again. "I suppose I could. Does it hurt to sit up?" he asked, taking on a more serious tone. She shook her head. "What about turning side to side?"

"No, I think I'm healing very well. They said the stitches can come out tomorrow. I'd really like to get out of here."

Watson smiled at her kindly. "I'll see what I can do."

- - -

"It's good to have you back, dear," Mrs. Hudson greeted Christine as she and the gentlemen came in two days later.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. It's good to be back, out of that hospital."

"What an ordeal you've gone through," the landlady said, shaking her head sadly. "How are you now?"

"I'm much better, thank you."

"Come, Miss Andrews," Mr. Holmes said, and offering his hand, led her up the stairs to the consulting room, followed by Dr. Watson.

They shut the door, and Christine sat herself on the sofa. "What's happened to Jason?" she asked after a moment of quiet. "He hasn't been hanged, has he?"

Holmes paused at the Persian slipper and turned to face her. "That's how things are usually done, Miss Andrews."

"I don't I _really_ care what happens to him, but he doesn't belong here. I need to take him back to the future. He needs to be held accountable for the murders there. I can't just have him disappear…._has_ he been hanged?"

Holmes lowered his eyes. "No. Though I must admit I'm disappointed."

"So is Scotland Yard." Watson added.

"What's happened to him?"

Holmes lit his pipe and sat himself. "After Lanaghan was arrested, he naturally protested his innocence. After a few days of this absurdity, he began to tell them the truth."

Christine froze in her motion to take the teacup Dr. Watson was handing her. "The truth? What…what do you mean?"

"Precisely that. He began telling the police that he was from the future, that _you _were from the future, that you'd come here with a time machine…." Holmes waved his hand.

"And?"

"He unknowingly saved himself. At least from the noose."

"I don't follow."

"Three days ago, Scotland Yard received a letter from Bethlem Hospital for Lanaghan's transfer there."

"What?!" she exclaimed, jumping to her feet. "Ow." She cringed.

"Are you all right?" Holmes asked, nearly dropping his pipe.

She nodded. "Just sore. So you mean to tell me that Jason's in some asylum? This is going to be even more diffcult to get him—"

"My brother sent the letter."

Christine slowly sat back down. "Your brother?"

"As you may know, Mycroft has powerful influence in the government. We had talked about the sentence being carried out here, but we both decided that it was best for him to be sent back to the future to be judged. We heard about his wild stories, and Mycroft had no trouble in securing a false transfer form."

"So…he's _not _at the hospital?"

"No."

"Where is he?"

"He's being kept in the cellar of a house I sometimes use when I have been in need of a hiding place."

"Does he know where he is and who brought him there?"

"No. He is completely ignorant of his whereabouts and is locked up in chains. He knows I have a hand in it, but that is all."

"So what happens now?"

"When you are ready, you can be on your way home," Holmes said, more stiffly than he meant. He got up and went to his room. He came out holding a box-shaped thing wrapped in cloth. "Your machine."

Christine took it from him and sat it on her lap, where she took the cloth away. The machine glimmered in the light of the fireplace, and Watson came closer to inspect it. Christine turned it around and around, looking carefully for damage. It appeared to be unharmed. She carefully turned it upside down and pulled up a switch that had been very well concealed. As she brought it all the way up, a hidden panel slid open, reveal a series of dials. "He didn't fiddle with it. Good thing…the date and time are still here…March 3, 1895, 4:55 am." She paused and looked at them both. "It seems so long ago."

"You've been here a month," Watson remarked.

"Wow." She shook her head. "It's going to be so strange when I get back. I can't wait to see Walter and…" her expression dimmed. "And Jason will finally get what's coming to him."

"What will happen to him?"

"Life in prison, I expect." Christine said. "Though it's for the courts to decide. He won't get anything less than that." She paused and covered her eyes with her hand. "I hate going to court," she sighed.

"Well don't think about that now," Watson said. "I think I hear Mrs. Hudson bringing up dinner."

- - -

The next day, Christine started packing her things. She hadn't taken much out of the knapsack since her arrival, but she wrapped a few of her favourite dresses carefully in paper and packed them inside.

After everything was settled, she placed her blue jeans, blouse, coat and shoes on her desk. She also put her cell phone in her coat pocket. She'd have the police's number ready as soon as she returned. Underneath her jeans, she placed Jason's handgun. She'd have that with her, just in case.

When those things were ready, she sat on the edge of her bed and ran the through the plan in her head.

She'd remembered seeing a green striped awning when she'd arrived here in Victorian London, and that morning Mr. Holmes had sent his Irregulars scouting around the outskirts of London to find it. They'd come back around tea time with a detailed report of the area. The green awning had belonged to a butcher's shop.

Early in the morning, they would go there. Mycroft would meet them, with Jason in tow. Christine would then proceed home with him.

No matter how many times her mind went through it, her thoughts always came back to Mr. Holmes. Her heart ached for him, and it often brought her to tears when she told herself that she would never see him again.

_He'd never be happy, _she constantly reminded herself, _if he were to come with me. I could never ask him to do that. And I couldn't stay here…his work is so important to him, and I would just get in the way. I couldn't just leave Walter and the company, either….Oh, Mr. Holmes…._

Little did she know the same thoughts plagued his mind.

He'd grown quieter than usual these past days, though he'd tried very hard to mask it. _It's simply not possible. She can't stay here, and I cannot go with her. _The option had often crossed his mind, but he would be out of place there in the future, not to mention the fact that he would be leaving Watson behind. He couldn't bring himself to abandon the doctor again, even for her.

He did feel something for her surely, but _was_ it love? He constantly questioned himself. He couldn't be sure – he had to convince himself that it was simply an infatuation.

It was this train of thought that occupied his mind when Watson came into the consulting room, dressed in one of his best suits. "Holmes, you're not dressed!"

The detective sat up and flicked his cigarette into the fireplace. "Forgive me, Watson. My thoughts were elsewhere. I'll be ready in ten minutes."

With that, he went into his bedroom and began to change. They were taking Miss Andrews to Simpson's for dinner on her last night with them.

Her last night.

Holmes' motions slowed in unbuttoning his shirt at the thought of her. But the downhearted thought began to give way to anger at himself. Was this how he was to be, after she had gone? Melancholy and consumed with memories of her? He wouldn't – couldn't – have it.

- - -

They had a splendid meal at Simpson's, which, it turned out, was a special place for Miss Andrews. She informed them that her father had treated her to dinner at Simpson's every year on her birthday. It was the only time of year they went to the fine restaurant.

She was impressed by the surroundings and the menu, so different from the modern restaurant, and thoroughly enjoyed herself.

She went to bed early that night, as did Watson – they had to rise very early in the morning, for it was the only time of day that the area near the butcher's shop was nearly deserted.

Holmes remained awake, battling with his thoughts. He was torn between his work and a woman – something he vowed would never happen. _I can't leave my time. It's better for her, and me, that I stay. It's for the best that's she's leaving,_ he told himself again and again, but the argument didn't seem to hold, and he sat looking sadly into the fireplace.

How long he sat, he had no idea. But so deep and far away were his thoughts that the noise of the door opening caused him to jump out of his chair.

"Oh, Mr. Holmes. I'm sorry, I didn't realize you were still awake. I didn't mean to startle you."

"Quite all right, Miss Andrews. How can I help you?" he asked.

She placed her hand at her throat and looked around the room. "I seem to have misplaced my locket; I was coming up here to look. Have you seen it?"

Holmes shook his head as he looked around the room. He lifted some papers on his desk and on the chair side table and moved some books on Watson's desk, but he didn't see it anywhere. "I'm sorry. I'll look for it, if you like."

"No, it's all right…It might be upstairs." She paused.

Holmes watched her. "Is there something else, Miss Andrews?"

"Um, yes…I'm actually glad you're awake." She admitted, looking up at him.

He raised an eyebrow.

"I just wanted to thank you, for everything." She said, coming closer to him. "You were the only person I knew could help me, and so you did. I don't think words can express how grateful I am to you for everything you've done for me….from the bottom of my heart, thank you, Mr. Holmes." She extended a hand, and he took it, shaking hands.

"You don't have to thank me," he replied quietly.

"Yes I do," she said, shaking her head.

A smile flittered across his face. "Then…you're very welcome, Miss Andrews."

Christine saw his mouth part as if he wanted to say something more, but he closed it again, and to her extreme surprise, bent and raised her hand to his lips.

A shiver ran through her spine and spread all over her body as he raised his head again, his grey eyes locked on her face.

Her heart was hammering so loud she was absolutely sure he could hear it. She swallowed. Her lower lip quivered as she whispered, "I…I'm going to miss you, Mr. Holmes."

Holmes still held her hand in his, and subtly he closed the distance between them until they were merely inches apart.

"And I you, Miss Andrews," he returned softly, tenderly taking hold of her other arm. His logical side was positively screaming inside him, telling him to stop now – _he could still stop this._

But he blocked this voice out, and bent towards her.

His lips touched hers, sweet and warm, sending a sensation like lightning through his body. He could feel her trembling in his hands as he kissed her gently, so aware of her hands against his chest and the softness of her skin. Though he wished to be much more passionate, he couldn't bring himself to take advantage of her.

She was leaving.

At this thought, he released her. They parted to stand, blushing and embarrassed, facing each other.

After several moments of complete silence, Christine whispered shakily, "G-good-night, Mr. Holmes."

"…good-night, Miss Andrews." He watched her cross the room and open the door, where she paused and turned to look at him once again, a peculiar look on her face – longing? But she then turned away and closed the door.

As soon as she left, Holmes released a shaking breath that he wasn't aware he'd been holding. His logical side came surging back, demanding to know what the _devil_ he'd been thinking of, but this did not stop him from touching his fingers to his lips, nor did it prevent his eyes from lingering on the door through which Miss Andrews had gone.

- - -

"Good-bye, Mrs. Hudson," Christine said the following morning, hugging the landlady fiercely.

"Good-bye, dear. You take care of yourself, now. Are you sure you don't want to wear one of your traveling dresses?" Mrs. Hudson asked again, looking in disappointment at Christine's blue jeans and heavy winter coat.

"No, I don't want to get them dirty. I'll change as soon as I get to where I'm going. Thank you so much for everything." She hugged her again.

"Not at all, Miss Andrews. Good-bye!" she waved her handkerchief as Christine, Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson went out the door into the foggy morning.

"Good-bye!" Christine called as they made their way into the cab.

The journey to the outskirts of London was a short, silent one. Christine didn't dare look at Mr. Holmes for very long, for fear of bursting out crying. She'd done enough of that last night, after she'd gone to bed. The memory of that kiss suddenly flooded her mind, and she clamped her lips tightly together to hold tears back.

"Did you find your locket?" Holmes asked suddenly, breaking the silence.

She looked up at him and shook her head slowly. "No, I didn't…it must have been lost at the warehouse or something."

"I'm sorry."

"It's all right."

Before Christine was ready for the cab to stop, it did so. Through the fog, she could barely make out the green striped awning that caused her mind to whirl back to the night she had arrived.

As the three of them got out of the cab, the soft neigh of another horse caused her to turn. A cab sat at the corner, ghostly in the mist, and the door opened. The large form of Mycroft Holmes stepped out of it. "Miss Andrews," he said, touching a finger to his hat.

"Hello, sir."

"Sherlock, Dr. Watson."

"Hello, Mycroft." Watson greeted him.

"Do you have him?" Holmes asked sharply.

"I do." Mycroft responded. His voice, though as deliberate as always, held an undercurrent of disgust. He ducked into the cab and pulled on a rope, and Lanaghan stumbled out of the vehicle, blindfolded, his wrists tied.

"Let me go, you old fool –"

"Shut your mouth, Jason," Christine snapped. "Don't you _dare_ talk to him like that."

"Christine." Jason said, straightening up and turning her way. "How is your _back_?"

She scowled. "I have a right mind to shoot you where you stand, Jason."

He began to laugh, but Holmes strode over to him and seized him roughly by the collar of his coat, pulling him close.

"_You listen to me," _he whispered furiously. _"If I had my way, you'd be tortured within an inch of your life, and then hung in the gallows for all of London to see. The only reason –" _he shook him harshly,_ "—the ONLY reason you're still alive is because of that woman. If you don't shut up, I'll take you back to Scotland Yard. And if you touch her ever again, I'll know. I'll hunt down your ancestors and make certain you're never born. Do you understand me?"_

Christine could not hear what Mr. Holmes was saying to Jason, but he went rather pale and shut up like a clam. He said nothing more after Holmes smoothed his coat and came back to stand by her.

"Is the machine set?" Watson asked.

Christine nodded. "Well," she said, fighting a rising lump in her throat. "I guess this is it. Good-bye, Mr. Holmes," she said, turning to Mycroft. "Thank you for your help."

"Not at all, my dear lady." He shook her hand.

"Dr. Watson…" She threw down her knapsack and put down the time machine and wrapped her arms around him.

Though somewhat startled, the doctor returned her hug and patted her back. "It's been an honor getting to know you, Miss Andrews. I wish you the best of luck in all things."

"Thank you, doctor," she said. The tears were starting to come now, and she wiped one away. More began to form as she looked upon Sherlock Holmes…for the last time. He extended his hand, but she flung herself into his arms.

Holmes tried to resist the temptation of holding her, but could not. He wrapped his arms tightly about her. "Good-bye, Miss Andrews. Please, don't cry." He took a handkerchief from his pocket and gave it to her.

She tried to say thank you, and good-bye in return, but was too choked up to do so. She wiped her eyes and stuffed the handkerchief in her pocket. _Go. Just go, Christine. You have to get out of here before you cry anymore. You have to go back home and call the police. Just go._

_Go._

She swallowed, took a deep breath, and slung her knapsack over her shoulders. She then turned the time machine over, undid the secret panel, and set the device for _March 3, 2007, 1:30 am. _She'd heard Jason break into her house at 1:15. She figured with 1:30, she'd be safe and not bump into herself.

She closed the panel and wound various knobs and dials. At last, her hand paused on the last dial, which she wound a quarter of the way. The machine

_15 seconds._

She hurriedly went over to Jason, ripped off his blindfold, and made him touch the time machine. She held the machine in one arm; his gun was in the other. "Don't you dare try anything, or so help me, I'll shoot you." A whirring noise came from the time machine, and the area around her began to fade. She turned to the three men behind her. "Good-bye!" she shouted. "Thank you so much! I'll never forget—"

Suddenly she and Lanaghan vanished.

Holmes, Watson and Mycroft stood in the street, empty but for the fog and themselves. Though she had told them how the machine worked and what it did, it was a rather nasty shock seeing someone vanish into thin air.

They stayed standing there for a couple moments, then Holmes sighed and said quietly, "Let's go home, Watson."

- - -

112 years into the future, Christine and Jason found themselves in the familiar territory of her back yard. There was her house, and off in the distance, the bright electric lights of London.

She instantly set the time machine down and pointed the gun at Lanaghan. She then whipped out her cell phone and dialed the police. "…yes. This is Christine Andrews at 101 Victor Terrace. Someone's broken into my house and killed my cook and butler. I have the man at gunpoint. Please hurry. No, I don't need medical attention. Yes, I'll stay on the line. Please hurry." She leaned her head sideways so she could keep the cell phone in place, and narrowed her eyes down the barrel of the gun at Jason.

She swallowed and blinked away some remaining tears. "It's all over."

- - -

Watson and Holmes returned quietly to Baker Street and let themselves in. The doctor yawned and informed his friend that he was going back to bed.

The detective slowly climbed the stairs to his consulting room. He'd best try to get some sleep too, considering the fact that he hadn't gotten any last night. As he was going into his bedroom, a glint of light caught his eye. He turned to look at the sofa, and saw something shining underneath it in the light of the fireplace.

He knelt down and reached for the object. When he pulled his hand from underneath the sofa, he saw that it was Miss Andrews' locket.

He paused there, still on his knees, holding the necklace in his palm. Then he slowly got up again and went to his desk drawer.

He reached for his handkerchief, but realized that he must have left it with Miss Andrews, and went to his bedroom for another. Returning to the drawer, he placed the locket inside of the handkerchief, tenderly folding each corner in until it was completely covered.

Then, with a deep breath, Sherlock Holmes laid it within the confines of the drawer and locked it away.

_**A/N**_

_You don't know how long I've had that kiss scene written. I finally got to use it!_

_Christine and Holmes don't appear like they're meant to be…star crossed lovers, it seems._

_**Death threat**__ – I had a special request for a death threat from Wandering Hitokiri. It's not too creative, but I hope it'll do._

_**Dr. Clarke: **__A reference to Dr. Clark Savage Jr., who is more commonly known as Doc Savage, pulp fiction hero. _

_**Simpson's: **__This was mentioned in the canon, but I really have to thank my friends at for first bringing it to my attention. It seems like a beautiful restaurant. On the Simpson's in the Strand website, under the "history" section, it says, "Guests include Vincent Van Gogh, Charles Dickens, Sherlock Holmes…."_


	20. Regrets

**Chapter Twenty: Regrets**

"Maybe you should take some time off."

Christine twirled the ice in her glass idly, looking out the window at the people passing by. Once again it struck her how different it was from 1895, and yet how similar.

"Christine?"

She bit her tongue, trying to keep her mind away from the Victorian era, but it was so difficult. How could she _not_ think about it, after what had happened?

"Christine?"

"Huh?" She turned her head abruptly to stare at Walter Birmingham, her godfather and vice president of the company. "I'm sorry, Walter. What did you say?"

"I said, maybe you should take some time off."

"Oh, I don't think…" She shook her head. "I couldn't do that."

"Yes you could. The company is very stable right now. And what with your father having passed away, and then the Lanaghan ordeal…." He folded his hands and leaned nearer to her across the table. 'You've been very uptight since that break in, Christine. I understand it must have been very shocking, seeing Tom and Gina." His voice grew quiet at this. After a moment, he continued. "But it's been over three weeks. You always seem exhausted, your attention drifts…I'm just concerned."

She patted his arm. "I'm all right, Walter. Really."

His grey eyebrows knit together and his already-wrinkled brow seemed to grow more wrinkles as he cast her a doubtful look.

She sighed and leaned back in her chair. She swept her bangs out of her eyes. "Maybe you're right. A little time off probably wouldn't hurt."

"Not at all."

She leaned forward again. "But the company will need somebody to take my place indefinitely."

"Yes. We'll need to set up some interviews—"

"I want that somebody to be you, Walter."

"Me?"

"You're the vice president, it's the only logical choice. And I trust you the most. I know you'll take good care of the company."

"Then what about my position?"

"What about Ryan Fleming? He's a good man."

"A little young." Walter said skeptically.

She smiled wryly. "He's my age, Walter."

"Well yes, but…."

"He's a good man. He's responsible, works hard. Never late. What do you think?"

"I'll talk to him about it."

"I want us both to talk to him."

"This will be good for you, Christine. Take some time off, do some traveling…."

"….do some gardening."

He laughed. "Do some gardening….Fresh air, relaxation, that's what you need."

- - -

Dr. Watson awoke with a start and sat bolt upright in his bed. What had he just heard? A yell?

_What the devil was—_

A loud thump below him interrupted his thoughts and caused him to leap out of bed. He rushed down the stairs, his walking stick firm in hand, and as soon as he reached Holmes' room, flung open the door.

He lowered the stick as soon as he saw there was no trouble. "Are you all right, Holmes?"

The detective was sitting on the floor in a bundle of blankets; he'd clearly fallen out of bed.

Holmes looked up at Watson, and the doctor noticed at once how pale and sweaty he was. "Are you all right?" he repeated. "I thought…I thought I heard you yell."

The detective shook his head. "I'm fine, Watson. Just a dream."

"Oh."

"I'm fine," he said again. "Good night."

"Good night, Holmes," the doctor said, and closed the door.

As soon as it was shut, Holmes took a deep breath and ran a trembling hand through his hair. He disentangled himself from his bedding, to sit on the edge of his mattress. He held his face in his hands, trying in vain to erase the dream from his memory. _No, not a dream. A nightmare._

He'd been at Reichenbach again. He'd been fighting Moriarty.

But something was different.

He'd been fighting his enemy for reasons other than to save his own life. At first he'd not been able to see what the reason was – dreams always revealed things in their own due time. It wasn't until he'd been knocked down and felt slender hands on his arm, helping back up, that he'd seen her.

"Get back, Miss Andrews!" he'd shouted over the falls.

He'd heard a snarl of rage from the professor, and grappled with him, trying to steer clear of the lady.

But Miss Andrews – she didn't listen – as Moriarty tumbled over the falls, he'd grabbed her arm, dragging her down with him!

'NO!" he'd screamed. He'd thrown himself at the edge, to see her clinging there. "Miss Andrews! Take my hand!"

"I can't reach!"

He'd strained his hand towards her – he _had_ to reach her, had to save her!

She'd looked up at him, tears in her eyes. "I'm slipping!" she'd cried.

"No! Hold on!" _Almost there!_

"NO! CHRISTINE!" She'd lost her grip on the mist-dampened rocks and fallen, screaming his name.

It was at this point that'd he'd fallen out of bed.

He got up and went to his water basin. He dipped his cupped hands into it and raised the water to his face, again and again.

When he stopped shaking, he paused with his hands lingering in the basin. It wasn't the first time he'd dreamed of her, but it had been by far the most terrifying.

He looked out of the window at the moon, glowing over the rooftops of London. He stared at it until he was quite calm, after which he wondered vaguely how Miss Andrews was, what she was doing at this moment.

Did she ever think about him?

- - -

Christine heard the telephone ring, but let the answering machine get it. She held the teacup in her hand, pausing until she heard the message start.

It was Walter, inviting her over for dinner. She'd call back later.

She sighed and put her teacup down to press her palms into her eyelids. It'd been two and half months since her return to the present time.

She'd tried to dismiss her feelings for Sherlock Holmes as a passing crush. She'd thought they'd pass quickly. But they hadn't. With every passing day she missed him more greatly.

She took her hands from her eyes and stared at her teacup. She couldn't go on like this. She just had to get over it and go on with her life. She drank the rest of her tea in one gulp, got up and took the cup to the kitchen. After leaving it in the sink, she pulled her hair into a ponytail, grabbed her cell phone and a bag off of the kitchen table.

She headed down the cellar stairs, and through the walk-out. She made her way to the left, where she kept a garden. Flowers were growing now, and she felt like she needed to do some good, hearty work.

Out of all her many interests and hobbies, she found gardening to be one of the most relaxing and rewarding. Weeding was on the agenda today; she hadn't worked on it much, but she meant for that to change.

She set to work on the place where the daisies were growing and carefully began to pull out dead things. She weeded for hours, and then went in for a glass of water and a sandwich. Afterwards, she decided she needed to plant some things and pulled out her seed packets. She picked one at random and looked to see its sun and shade requirements. _Loosestrife._

She involuntarily clenched her teeth and threw the packet back into the bag.

There was no getting away from him. She'd put away _The Complete Cases of Sherlock Holmes,_ hidden all of her Chopin CDs, locked her dresses away in the attic….

She'd done everything to try and forget about him, but it seemed the more she tried to forget, the more she thought of him.

Sometimes, she thought she saw him in a crowd, walking the streets of London, but it was never him. Of course it wasn't him. He…he was dead.

The thought that there was no way she could see him again caused her throat to tighten. She took off her gardening gloves and rubbed her eyes. _When is this going to end? Am I ever going to be able to let him go?_

- - -

Dr. Watson looked upon the familiar surroundings of Baker Street and sighed in satisfaction. He'd been gone for almost two weeks visiting some patients out in the country. It was good to be back home, as much as he loved a change of scenery.

He shivered as a sudden gust of November wind kicked up and hurried to unlock the door of 221B, but it opened before he could turn the key.

"Oh, doctor! I'm so glad you've returned."

"Hello, Mrs. Hudson. Is something wrong?"

"It's Mr. Holmes. I'm afraid he's taken ill. He's been a mess since you've been gone – he's barely eaten a thing!"

"I'll see to him," Watson said, patting the landlady's shoulder comfortingly. He trudged up the stairs holding his suitcases, dropped his luggage in the hallway and went into the consulting room with his medical bag.

He stopped short in the doorway and surveyed the room. There were saucers and teacups and papers everywhere. The Stradivarius lay on the edge of Holmes' desk, looking as if it might fall at any moment. On top of all the mess, the room was dark and smoky. "Holmes?" Watson coughed. He liked a bit of good tobacco, but this was really too much. He frowned and crossed the room, where he slid one of the windows open, parting the curtains to let some more light in.

He turned at once to see the detective, wondering how he might have missed him, sitting in his usual chair. "Holmes!" he said in accusing voice. "What have you done to yourself?"

Holmes raised his eyes languidly to Watson's. He looked very gaunt, very tired, and it appeared as if he hadn't shaved in several days. He was clothed in his bathrobe and slippers, though it was two o' clock in the afternoon.

"Holmes," Watson said again, "What's going-" He stopped as his gaze fell upon the sofa, where a syringe lay. "Oh, that's it, is it." The doctor's lips tightened into a firm straight line, and he marched over to his friend. "Holmes," he said sharply. "I demand, as your doctor and your friend, that you get yourself cleaned up. This is shameful. No, I don't care what you think, and I don't want to know the reasons you've done this to yourself," he interrupted as Holmes began to respond. "You're doing as I say. Mrs. Hudson has been worried sick, I could see it in her face. I leave you for two weeks, and you sink into this mess."

Holmes got up and began to enter his bedroom. "Forgive me, Watson," he said quietly, pausing at the door.

Watson's shoulders sagged and he sighed. "I just don't want you to become ill. There's enough disease in this city around this time of year without _you_ catching something too."

A couple hours later, after Holmes had cleaned himself up, Watson was heading down for tea.

The detective was playing his violin again. Watson often just went into the room when Holmes was doing this, but the music stopped him this time. The doctor had heard several melancholy tunes come from the Stradivarius, but none so mournful as the song that now reached his ears. Holmes always became depressed when his mind was not occupied with a case, and this year had been slow.

But the depression usually wasn't so severe. He wondered at it, and wished he could help. As he further listened to the violin, his heart grew heavy, and heavier still with the knowledge that his friend would most likely not confide in him what troubled him to such an extent.

Late that evening, however, as they sat smoking their pipes in silence, Holmes spoke. "Watson," he said, very quietly, "I don't know what to do."

Watson removed the pipe from his mouth. "Don't know what to do about what?"

Holmes let the pipe dangle in his right hand and used his left to rub his eyes. "I…I usually don't confide my personal matters in other people."

Watson looked about himself and said gently, "Whatever you need to get off your shoulders, Holmes, you can confide in me. You can trust me with whatever it is."

"I know, Watson." He lowered his hand from his face and gave the doctor a fleeting grateful smile. All traces of it quickly vanished as he turned his face toward the fire. He locked his eyes on the flames, as if not wanting to meet Watson's stare.

The doctor waited patiently for Holmes to say something; his friend never revealed personal things intentionally or willingly. This was something very much out of the ordinary.

"I…can't get her out of my mind, Watson."

_Her?_ Watson thought incredulously. A woman in Holmes' life was certainly news to him. "Which woman are you referring to?" he asked tentatively.

"…Miss Andrews," Holmes whispered.

Watson sat up straighter in his chair. "Miss Andrews? My dear Holmes, I didn't realize you felt…I didn't know you held feelings for her." It wasn't exactly a lie. He'd noticed some _attraction _between the two, but he thought that it was just mild flirtation, nothing very serious. And Holmes was so aloof. He would never have guessed Miss Andrews – or any woman for that matter – was the cause of the detective's recent depression.

Holmes' lips tightened. "Yes." He was silent again for a few moments. "This is…not easy for me to say." He waited for a response from Watson, but knew the doctor understood and was willing to wait for however much time it took for him to get this sorted out. Holmes couldn't go on with this horrible secret inside of him, this horrible pain, without trying to get some advice. He had told Watson before that the fair sex was his department.

He took a deep breath and said, "I cannot stop thinking about her. She plagues my dreams and my thoughts constantly. The only reprieve I have is when I am on a case, and as you know, we have seen little of them this year." He paused again and covered his eyes with his hand tiredly. "While you were gone, I thought of her even more than usual and divulged myself in that vice you so highly disapprove of." He became silent once more.

Watson sat similarly, watching his friend. He tried to think of something to say, but Holmes beat him to it.

"I think…" he began, but paused again and swallowed, as if what he was going to say was very difficult to get out. "I think I love her, Watson," he whispered.

"My dear Holmes," Watson said softly. He had a mind to put a hand on his friend's shoulder, but decided it might make the detective even more uncomfortable.

"I've tried everything to put her behind me, but I can't seem to." He uncovered his eyes. "Have you come across this dilemma before?"

"Yes, Holmes," Watson replied, averting his gaze. "When Mary passed away—"

Holmes sat up very straight, apology written all over his face. "My dear Watson, I had no intention of turning your thoughts to—"

"It's all right, Holmes," Watson said, waving his hand to dismiss the remark. "I still think of her, but I've moved on. I won't say it doesn't take time, old chap – it's been two years since it happened – but as the saying goes, time heals all wounds. Just give it some time; you'll soon be all right."

It wasn't exactly what Holmes had wanted to hear. He'd secretly been hoping for some kind of instant remedy. But he was grateful for Watson's advice and console. "Thank you, Watson. You're quite right." He stood and went to the window. He felt rather better, having gotten the secret off his chest. "Watson," he said, turning, "You won't—"

"Mum's the word, Holmes."

- - -

"Christine, I've been very worried about you. You've seemed very unhappy these last few months. Have you seen a doctor, or is there something I can do?"

Christine shrugged deeper into her blanket and pulled her feet underneath her, staring into the fireplace of Walter's living room. "I don't need to see a doctor, and I don't think you can help me," she replied quietly.

"I can try," Walter said, leaning towards her. "Look Christine. I've known you since the day you were born. I'm your godfather. You should be able to trust me."

"I _do _trust you!" she said, sitting up.

"Then tell me what's wrong."

She sighed. "I can't. Not right now." She lowered her eyes. "I'm sorry."

- - -

It was January.

Holmes looked out his window on the freshly fallen snow, watching as it tumbled, sparkling on the streets below him.

The fire crackled behind him as Watson moved the logs around.

He'd seemed better these last two months, but he still thought of her often. He'd grown so used to her presence during that month that sometimes, when he was half asleep he fancied he heard her voice or her footstep on the stair.

His feelings might disappear one day, but as Watson said, it was going to take time.

And he would never truly forget her.

* * *

**A/N**

_I FOOLED you, didn't I! It's not over yet!_

_**Song reference: **__That last scene is an homage to some lyrics from a song called "I Wish You Could Be Here" by a group called The Seekers. Great group, great song._


	21. A Fresh Start

**Chapter Twenty-One: A Fresh Start**

It was March of 1896. It was cold, and rainstorms were frequent. Today was one of those rainy days; the showers were inconsistent and the sky had been dark since dawn.

It was some after tea and Holmes sat puffing his pipe and reading over one of his monographs. Watson had left right after tea to see a patient and didn't expect to be back for another hour or so.

It was just as well, Holmes reflected. The month of March had brought rather melancholy thoughts to mind, and the weather was doing nothing to improve his mood. He heard the front door close below him, and Mrs. Hudson's voice.

Holmes glanced at the clock – Watson was back earlier than expected. Perhaps they could see if something was playing at the theatre and take dinner. Perhaps. He went back to his monograph, vaguely wondering what else he might add to it.

He heard the consulting room door open a few minutes later. "Back so soon? Was it not as serious as you –"It was then that he looked toward the doorway, and his voice caught in his throat.

It was her.

Holmes could scarcely believe his eyes. Was this a dream? A trick, surely!

But he slowly rose form his chair. "Miss Andrews?" he asked softly.

She smiled, though her lips trembled. "Mr. Holmes."

To hear her voice again – not the ghost of her voice, but her actual one – caused his heart to beat faster. "Please," Holmes said suddenly, gesturing to the sofa.

"Thank you." She moved closer, into the firelight. She walked as gracefully as ever, looked even more beautiful than he remembered. She was wearing a light blue dress with a faint pinstripe pattern; he didn't recognize the outfit. She sat down, clutching an equally unrecognizable purse in her lap.

Holmes slowly returned to his chair, never taking his eyes off her lest she vanish. "What brings you here? Is everything all right?"

She nodded vigorously. "Oh yes. Everything's fine."

"No trouble with Lanaghan?"

She shook her head. "No. He's been in prison for a long time now."

"Ah." He nodded, and they were quiet for a few moments until his desperate curiosity caused him to repeat softly, "What has brought you here?"

"I…um…." She lowered her eyes and shifted uncomfortably. "I…I came to see you." She bit her lip momentarily. "How are you?" she asked suddenly, peering into his face. "Have…have you been ill? You don't look well, if you'll excuse my saying so."

Holmes didn't respond right away. Him? She'd come back to see him? Why? "…Yes, I've been ill. But I'm feeling better." Now that he thought about it, she didn't look particularly healthy either. She looked as if she'd lost weight.

"Good." She smiled, nodding.

"You came to see me?" he echoed. He looked intensely into her face. "Where is the time machine?"

She gestured to the floor. "Downstairs with my things." She cut the sentence off abruptly.

"Your things?" _What things? Does she mean luggage?_

"Yes." She swallowed and fiddled with her purse, then pt it down beside her and stood.

Holmes also got to his feet and watched her as she knotted her fingers together. "Mr. Holmes," she began, but couldn't seem to face him, so she turned.

_I can't look at his eyes or I'm not going to be able to get this out without crying. _"I came back to see you," she repeated. "I brought all my things and the time machine, but I was going to destroy it if—" she cut off her sentence and bit her lip. This wasn't how she'd planned on saying it. Her words were tumbling out; her prepared speech seemed to have vanished without a trace from her mind.

Holmes hung on her every word. Her words tumbled around his brain. _'but I was going to destroy it if…' If what? She was going to destroy the machine if what? If she were to destroy it, she would be stranded here in the—_

Everything within him seemed to stop. Even his heart seemed to still itself for a moment. If the time machine was destroyed, she would have to stay here.

With him.

Was that what she wanted? Did she have feelings for him? She must! What other reason would she have for staying?

"You…Do you plan on destroying the machine because you… hold some affection for me?" he asked slowly.

_Affection?_ Christine thought. _That's putting it lightly. _"Yes," she said quietly.

"But only if I return your affections."

Her mouth seemed to have stopped working, and she nodded.

After what seemed like an eternity but was only a moment later, she felt his hand brush against her shoulder. "Then you may destroy it." His voice came quietly, close to her ear.

She raised a trembling hand to her mouth in disbelief, turning to face him. "Mr. Holmes…" she said softly, tears forming in her eyes.

"Miss Andrews…" he whispered in return, and gently took hold of her shoulders. He slowly bent towards her until their lips touched. Her lips were just as sweet and warm as he remembered. He embraced her tentatively, but when she began to return his kiss, he leaned into her, drawing her closer against him. She shyly slid her arms around his neck, which only resulted in a more passionate kiss on his part.

She engulfed his senses. The smell of her, the feel of her body, her hands…. He twined his fingers in her hair, slid his opposite arm around her waist, drawing her closer still. He could feel her heart pattering against his own, which was beating so rapidly he was quite sure it would leave his chest.

Suddenly the door swung fully open. "Oh! I beg your pardon!"The embarrassed, apologetic voice of Watson reached their ears, and they swiftly parted.

All Christine saw of the doctor was his hand as he promptly retreated from the room. "Dr. Watson!" she called.

There were quick footsteps, and the door once again opened. "Miss Andrews?" he exclaimed, wide-eyed. His face was flushed a deep red from his awkward entry, but the color began to fade fast.

She laughed, nodding.

He laughed also, coming forward and crying, "Good Lord! Whatever are you doing here?"

"I…um, well…" She glanced at Mr. Holmes and blushed slightly.

Watson noted this and looked at Holmes, but the detective's gaze was averted. He nodded knowingly. "Well I'm very glad to see you!" he said, trying to relieve some of the uncomfortable atmosphere. He came forward and grasped her hands. "Are – do you plan on staying?"

"Yes," Christine said, looking back at Mr. Holmes, who caught her eye. "Yes, I do."

- - -

On August 6 of 2008, Walter Birmingham received a package in the mail. It was small, rectangular and flat. He opened it to find a video tape.

He enjoyed a movie as much as the next man, but what rushed him to the player was the fact that he recognized the writing upon the tape to be his goddaughter's, who had been missing since March.

He pushed in the tape and hurriedly sat down on the edge of his footstool.

There was some static, and then the face of Christine greeted him.

"Hi, Walter," she said, smiling. "I hope you're sitting down." She spoke slowly, carefully and clearly, as if she wanted every word to count. "By the time you receive this, hype over my disappearance will have calmed down considerably." She folded her hands. "Now, I don't want you to worry. I'm just fine – I haven't been kidnapped or anything like that – I told you the same thing on my video will, which I'm sure you've watched. Now. The fact that you _saw_ the will and are watching this video confirms the fact that I _am _gone. And," she added, pausing, "I'm afraid I won't be coming back." She held up her hands. "Don't think for one minute that it's anything you did or anything related to the company. It's not even about Dad's death, like I told you in the will. That was a false statement.

But Jason Lanaghan did have something to do with it. The night he broke in something happened that I haven't told anyone…."

An hour later, Walter sat staring at Christine's face, paused on the television screen. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson? Victorian London? The machine actually _worked_? It was a bit much for him to think about, but he unpaused the tape and continued to watch.

"When I took off work, my feelings for Mr. Holmes only grew stronger. So I made up my mind to do research on the Victorian era so I could go back. I attended classes at Oxford, talked to historians; I had duplicate trunks and bags made, not to mention clothing. I had some photographs of mum and dad antiqued so I could take them with me…." She trailed off and folded her hand sin her lap again. "Please don't dismiss this as a rash decision. I thought very long and hard about it." She looked at him sadly. "I'm really going to miss you, Walter. You've been like a second father to me." She began to say something else, but her voice cracked and she held up one finger as if to say 'one minute' and disappeared off camera.

She returned a few moments later holding a tissue. "This…isn't an easy decision for me to make." She sniffed and looked down at her hands. "But if I don't go back to him and tell him how I feel, I'll never be able to be happy again. And if you're watching this, it means that he loves me too and has wanted me to stay." She smiled through her tears, squeezing the tissue in her hands. "I wish I could keep talking to you forever. But the tape's probably going to run out soon." She laughed shakily. "I'm going to miss you, Walter," she repeated. "I hop you know that I love you. I always will." She paused to wipe at her eyes, then took a deep breath and looked at him squarely.

"At the Sherlock Holmes museum, there is a somewhat loose floorboard. It is the fifth board in from the front door. I will place a key under that floorboard; I understand that the floor has never been replaced, only reinforced."

Walter paused the tape and scrambled in his briefcase for a pen and a piece of paper, then unpaused the tape again.

"At Charing Cross," Christine continued, "there is an old building that used to be the bank of Cox and Company. The company is now known as Cox and Kings, and is located down the street at 30 Millbank. I've talked to the staff there, and they've informed me that they saved everything they could from the vaults after they were bombed in World War II. The key underneath the floorboards of the museum goes to a box owned by Cox and Kings. I will place further proof for you to find there." She paused again and clenched the tissue in her hands.

Walter could tell that she was doing her utmost not to cry, and found his own throat tightening.

"I love you, Walter," she whispered. As tears began to run down her face, she leaned forward and the tape went black.

"I love you too, Christine."

- - -

"Well," Watson said, glancing at the clock on the mantle which read 10:00, "It's late, and I've had a rather long day." He yawned.

Watson could lie beautifully when he wanted to, Holmes reflected. Now wasn't one of those times. That yawn was the falsest one he'd ever seen. He raised his eyebrow and cocked his head slightly at Watson.

The doctor seemed to pick up on his doubt, and stood to take Miss Andrews' hand. "Good night, Miss Andrews."

"Good night, doctor."

"Good night, Holmes."

"Watson."

The doctor took his leave, shutting the door behind him.

Christine turned to Mr. Holmes, who after a moment of staring at her, took her hands and held them in his. She pulled at them slightly, causing him to get out of his chair to sit next to her.

It had finally settled in his mind that she truly intended to stay, and now he was wondering why. _She has feelings for me, but to give up her life?_ "What about the future?" he asked quietly. "You gave up everything to come back here?"

She lowered her eyes and nodded. "I made all the necessary arrangements. Walter is president of the company, and he has a lot of good men and women working for him. I left my house to Walter and my cousin, and split the money I had between the company, my family and charity. I took some of my things with me – they're in my suitcases – but left everything else to my family."

"What did you tell them?"

"On my video will I – it's a will that you can record onto a film – I told them that I had left because of my father's death, and the Lanaghan ordeal had pushed me to a point where I had to start over fresh."

"They don't know anything about the machine?"

"No…but I've made arrangements for a package to be mailed to Walter in August. By that time, all the commotion over my disappearance will have died down. The contents of the package will tell him the truth."

"You've thought through everything."

"Yes I have. Many, many times." She paused and stared into his face in such a way that it made his heart pound. "I had to come back. I couldn't bear being separated from you any longer."

Holmes suddenly got up from his seat and went to his desk.

Christine watched him curiously, straining to see what he was getting from his desk drawer. He soon closed the drawer and returned holding a neatly folded handkerchief, which he handed to her.

"What's this?"

"It's yours," He answered.

She gave him a quizzical look, but began to unwrap the handkerchief. A dull shine greeted her eyes as she pulled back a corner, and her mouth parted in disbelief. "My locket! Where did you—"

"I found it the night you left, under the sofa."

"And you kept it."

"Of course."

She smiled at him and clasped the locket around her neck, glad to feel its familiar weight against her throat once more. "Thank you," she said, placing her hand over his.

All of a sudden he pulled her against him, securing her in his arms. "You've no idea how I've missed you," he whispered in her ear.

"Yes I have," she whispered back, and tilting her head, kissed him.

- - -

The next day, Walter went into the city, straight for Baker Street. The museum wasn't open today, but as the Andrews and Birmingham families were great monetary supporters of the historic sites around London, the caretaker made an exception.

The caretaker, whose name was Doyle (a descendant of Dr. Watson's editor) retired to his office and allowed Walter free roam of the place.

As quietly as he could, Walter took a flathead screwdriver from his coat pocket and counted five floorboards from the front door and pried it up.

He saw nothing. But he bent down further and felt around. Just when he was going to give up, his fingertips brushed against what felt like a cloth. He closed his hand around it and pulled it into view. It was a very old, very dusty lace handkerchief. There was something small and hard inside. A key.

After replacing the floorboard and with a quick thank you to the caretaker, Walter raced to his car, heading for 30 Millbank.

It was a very new, classy looking building. He went inside, and asked for some assistance from a Cox and Kings employee.

"Hello, sir, may I help you?"

"Yes. I'm looking for the box that this key belongs to." He handed the man the key, who studied it.

"Let me get the vice president," he said. "He deals with all matters concerning those old boxes."

After waiting for what seemed like an uncomfortably long time, the vice president came down to meet him. "Hello, Mr. Birmingham, I'm Mr. Kay."

"Nice to meet you."

"Likewise. So what's this I hear about a key?"

Walter handed it to him.

After a moment, he looked up at Walter strangely.

"Where did you get this?" he asked.

"I found it in my house," Walter lied, "In an old trunk."

"It's a very old key indeed. Antique, I should think. But I do believe we still have the box. This way."

Walter was led down some stairs, into a series of hallways and past many rooms whose only function appeared to be storage. The man seemed to know where he was going, and Walter obediently followed. At last, at the end of one poorly lit corridor, the man unlocked a closet with and after rummaging around, took out a battered and worn tin box. It looked as if it had had a name painted on it at one time, but it was beyond recognition now.

"You can take it with you," Mr. Kay said, looking at the box in curiosity. "Since you had the key, I guess it belongs to you. We were just going to get rid of these things anyway."

"Thank you."

When Walter reached his house, he could barely wait to look inside the box. He took the key and opened the tin box, glad and amazed that the lock hadn't rusted over.

The box was crammed with yellowed, curled papers, most tied neatly with string. He took some of these out; he did not recognize the hand writing on them, but caught the word "Dr. John Watson" on more than one of them.

At the bottom of the box was a sheaf of papers, neatly stacked and tied with a pink ribbon. The top paperread _Walter Birmingham._

He recognized Christine's writing at once, though she rarely wrote in cursive. The paper was old and smelled musty, and looked as though it had been written with a fountain pen or something similar.

He untied the string, and discovered that the sheaf of papers consisted of a series of short letters and timelines, illustrating the life Christine had led. They were all dated, ranging from 1895 through the early 1900s. He gingerly took up the first letter, but something fluttered down the floor from further down the pile, and he stooped to pick it up.

It was a photograph.

Walter's breath caught and tears welled in his eyes as he recognized Christine. She was older in the photograph, though not much, her hair up in a loose style, wearing a high-necked dress. A slight smile played on her features as she leaned against a chair. In the chair, a tall dark haired man with an aquiline nose sat that Walter could only assume was Sherlock Holmes.

Precious few photos of the detective existed, but from this photo, Walter gathered that he was a strong willed man. But underneath that apparent strong will, in the way he was shifted slightly in Christine's direction, he could tell that he would be good to her.

He would love her, and that was all that mattered.

**A/N **

**Cox and Co.: **_This is where Watson reportedly stored all of his unpublished cases and what not, as recorded in the beginning of The Problem of Thor Bridge. The original Cox and Co. building at Charing Cross was bombed during the Blitz._

*dances* Yay!! It is completed!!

Sorry the ended rambled on for a bit, I couldn't think of how to end it properly. Also sorry for how delayed this was. Work and school have been very crazy and demanding lately, but finals are over now so it's better.

I would like to thank you all for reading and reviewing this story; it was a blast to write and I'm rather proud that I finished a fan fiction.

If any one would like to see A Study in Time related art, please go to my DeviantArt site at silvreDOTdeviantartDOTcom. And if anyone would like to do fanart, I would be very excited and flattered :P

Now that ASIT is finished, I have to go back and finish another fanfiction project, World Warriors. But after that is complete, I have plans for several more adventures of Christine and Holmes, so stay tuned!

Thank you!!


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